Fitzwilliam Darcy, Poet

by Jennifer Joy

  He smiled back, feeling awkward when he did not know what to say. Should he tell her he saw her family? But, of course, she would know he saw them.

  Or, perhaps, he ought to mention how well they looked? No, that would not do either. They were the ones who had been quick to question Bingley regarding Miss Bennet, and he had been as quick to reassure them she was very nearly perfect. Darcy had offered no such reassurances, being too put off by the family’s manners.

  Now, he wished he would have at least agreed with Bingley in show of his support. Instead, he had listened to Miss Bingley’s criticism of Mrs. Bennet when her own ambitions were equally unwelcome. A gentleman would have cut her off.

  Miss Elizabeth pondered him, her eyebrows raised in question marks.

  He ought to say something, but he had no words. No intelligent words. No words which would not immediately point out his failure to act gentlemanly. Again.

  Darcy wanted to be anywhere but standing in front of the young lady who held him accountable for his attitudes and actions, who demanded he do better. But pride prevented him from bowing and taking his leave. He could not back down.

  With a nod, Darcy continued to the bookshelf where the entirety of Bingley’s collection of literature was bunched. Selecting one of the tomes Wickham had brought from London, Darcy considered where to settle himself.

  Miss Elizabeth sat by the window in the middle of the room. If he chose to sit at either extreme of the room, she might think he was avoiding her. But if he sat across from her, she might think he was forcing his company on her.

  Since when did sitting down become such a conundrum? Blast it all, just sit!

  Gritting his teeth, Darcy strode over to the window, pulling the chair a few inches away from Miss Elizabeth before he finally sat. Burying his face in the voluminous tome, he embarked on the enlightening journey of land irrigation (perhaps the shortest journey known to man as Darcy read and reread the first sentence over the next quarter of an hour.)

  Miss Elizabeth, contrary to Darcy’s own struggle with his selection, seemed to devour every page of her book. She poured over the contents, stopping occasionally to lean her head against the back of the chair with her eyes closed and a contented smile gracing her lips. (A smile which disappeared when she caught him watching her more than once.)

  Their eyes met for the third time, and Darcy felt his cheeks burn. Try as he might, he could not look away. Years of calm composure failed him, and he knew his burning complexion betrayed his lack of self-possession to the one woman he most wished to impress … with his gentlemanliness. Nothing more. Gentlemen did not stare. He would not stare. Stop staring!

  He busied himself, flipping through the pages and finally closing the book when he knew it offered no distraction. Having nothing else to do, Darcy occupied himself in extracting a piece of lint from the sleeve of his coat and straightening his cuff and generally looking anywhere but at Miss Elizabeth, who he sensed was watching him with some fascination.

  She laughed, and Darcy went rigid.

  Was she laughing at him?

  He finally looked at her, and her smile spread to her eyes. There was no sarcasm or spite on her pleasant semblance. Darcy was relieved. It would be a pity for Miss Elizabeth’s fine features to be marred with venom. If such a thing were even possible… She seemed to find enjoyment in everything. Even in him at that moment.

  She soon explained her glee. “Either you are an extremely meticulous reader or the book you selected has failed to engage your interest. Might I inquire on the subject of your tome?”

  Darcy chuckled, shaking his head. “You have an interest in land drainage?” he asked, moving his chair forward and extending the odious book to her.

  The same gold flecks which Darcy knew from experience to flash when she was angry, now sparkled and danced in gaiety. She said, “Not at all! I only inquired in the hope you would, in turn, ask what I was reading. It is infinitely more interesting, I assure you.”

  Her blunt honesty shocked him in the most pleasant way, and he laughed in earnest. “Do you always speak what is on your mind so … clearly?”

  She rolled her eyes and groaned. “I am not so direct with everyone. However, I cannot seem to speak in any other way when you are near. I assure you I am much more pleasant to others.”

  “I would not have you speak any other way to me, Miss Elizabeth. I find your honesty refreshing. Too many scheme and calculate to gain my favor.”

  “Is your favor so valuable to gain?” she asked, immediately covering her hands over her mouth, her eyes widening. Moving her hands to press against her red cheeks, she said, “I did not mean… Oh, that sounded awful… It is only that…”

  Darcy could not contain his grin. Miss Elizabeth’s inability to offer a simple apology told him she was not a complete stranger to pride. They were not so different after all.

  He said, “I do not extend my friendship easily. I am loyal to the friends I keep, and those who lose my good opinion have lost it forever.”

  Her smile disappeared. “I cannot laugh at that. I hope your good opinion is as difficult for your friends to lose as you say it is for them to gain.”

  “Of course.”

  She chewed on her bottom lip, nodding her head slowly as she pondered. “I suppose that is fair. To continue to expose yourself to false friends is to willingly expose yourself to misery. And perhaps in facing your disapproval, they might change their faulty ways rather than lose your friendship after having struggled to gain it in the first place.”

  Darcy agreed, though he had only ever considered how his careful selection of friends benefited him. He had never thought how others were affected before Miss Elizabeth pointed it out to him. The way she phrased her conclusion made him appear more altruistic than he really was. In reality, Darcy felt selfish.

  He could not accept a compliment which did not belong to him, nor did he wish to discuss his faults at greater length, and so Darcy changed the subject back to her book. She had wished for him to inquire about what she was reading, and he was happy to oblige. Books were safe subjects of conversation.

  Holding up his tome, he said, “I could never befriend a man who found enjoyment in this.”

  “Not a harsh requirement. I doubt many such men exist.” Her tone was joyous.

  Darcy could not help but smile. “What are you reading?”

  She clutched the book to her chest, her fingers stroking the cover of her treasured volume. “I thought you would never ask! It is the most marvelous collection of poems you could ever read.”

  Darcy would not have believed how visibly delight could be displayed until he saw it reflected in Miss Elizabeth. How was it possible for her entire face to bear a smile when her lips were only slightly upturned? She was stunning.

  He tried not to blink, knowing it was unseemly to stare like an oaf at her, but he feared closing his eyes even for a split second lest her expression change.

  Darcy need not have worried. Miss Elizabeth continued petting her beloved book, the love she had for the poems within plain for him to see. If she wished to tell him about her cherished poems, he would listen as long as she wanted to talk.

  “Who wrote them?” he asked.

  “Mr. Walter Wyndham,” she said in a breathy tone like a bucket of cold water crashing over Darcy’s warming body.

  Wyndham. What an unpleasant surname.

  Miss Elizabeth obviously admired this Walter Wyndham. Whoever he was.

  “Why have I never heard of him?” Darcy asked, not certain which was worse: that he hoped Mr. Wyndham was a long-deceased poet or that Miss Elizabeth highly esteemed a dead poet she could never have met.

  Miss Elizabeth replied, “It is one of the greatest injustices to literature that his poems are not more readily available. I am not surprised you have never heard of him. Why would you read the ladies’ journals where his poems have been published these past few years? The only reason I have this volume is because my uncle, who is traveling in America for
business, sent it to me. Until recently, I was left to deduce that Mr. Wyndham lived in America, and the poems I have read in the magazines here were sent by his publisher to test if there was much interest in his works here in England.”

  Darcy could have pointed out that obviously his poems had not caught on in England, so they must not be as grand as she claimed them to be, but he could not say it when she clearly did not agree with popular opinion.

  Instead, he said, “It is a tragedy more people do not share your appreciation of his work. How is it you came to enjoy his poems so much?”

  “My younger sisters like to look at the pictures in the journals, leaving me to read the articles. Most of them are of no interest to me, but I remember the first time I read one of Mr. Wyndham’s poems.” She looked up at the ceiling as if she could see beyond the plaster molding, continuing, “It would be a disservice for me to say it was better than Blake, Shelley, or Wordsworth. But his words made me feel as if he had reached through the pages and touched my heart.”

  Breath escaped Darcy. “To be understood as you have described…” What? An unachievable dream? A castle in the clouds? What he wanted more than anything?

  She said softly, “The greatest gift we could be bestowed in this world.”

  Darcy was suddenly very jealous of this Mr. Wyndham. It tensed his shoulders as he saw how he failed to measure up to a poet of no significance beyond what Miss Elizabeth had granted him in her heart.

  Status and prestige were of no import to her, but Darcy’s need to be of some significance to the lady grew. Society did not know who Elizabeth Bennet was, but she had earned Darcy’s respect … and if he were to be completely honest with himself … his admiration.

  Blast!

  She was honest. She refused to be intimidated by his status when others would lick his boots. She laughed at herself as easily as she did at others’ follies. She possessed a quick, witty mind, but she had not used it to cut as Bingley’s sisters often did. She did not give herself airs, and yet she stood out in a crowd.

  And she had fallen under the spell of a wordsmith she had never met. How was Darcy to compete with that?

  “Is the poem you spoke of in that collection?” he asked. He would hear it.

  “It is,” she riffled through the pages, holding it open when she found it.

  “Will you read it to me, please?” Darcy would have closed his eyes to focus solely on the rhythm and flow of an excellently composed poem, but Miss Elizabeth was too charming to deny himself of the pleasant view her reading provided.

  She started. She read one line, and Darcy finished it before she could in his mind.

  No.

  She read another line, and Darcy again finished the quatrain in the confines of his own mind.

  Darcy gripped the arm of his chair, panic stinging his throat.

  He knew this poem.

  He had written it.

  Chapter 21

  “Can you not sense the depth of his emotions?” Miss Elizabeth said, her hand resting over her heart.

  Darcy’s emotions ran deeply, indeed. During the course of her reading, he had run the gauntlet from panic to fury. He wanted to lash out, but he would not make Miss Elizabeth the target of his wrath. Her features were so soft, her voice so tender, and her exposed heart so gentle, Darcy bit his tongue and swallowed his bitterness with a gulp. He now understood the power words had over Miss Elizabeth, and he would sooner swear to a lifetime of silence than hurt her with a careless remark. Again.

  “I do not have occasion to read much poetry, having so many other demands on my time—” he began.

  “More is the pity. We all stand to benefit from beauty.” Her voice trembled with feeling, her own beauty reflected from the depths of her inner being taking Darcy’s breath away. Or was he so vain he felt her admiration and it made her more appealing in his eyes?

  Except Miss Elizabeth did not know he was the author of the poems she adored. She admired the man who had penned the words she loved, but what would she think if she found out it was he? Would he meet her expectations?

  Too troubled to be more eloquent, Darcy said, “Yes … that is to say … I agree with you, Miss Elizabeth.”

  “How sensible of you,” she teased.

  Her laughter clouded his senses, and Darcy grasped onto the only lucid realization upon which reasonable thought could grow: His poems had been stolen — and worse, they had been printed.

  Darcy had not shared his sonnets with anyone. Not with Georgiana. Not even his valet knew. Writing was Darcy’s way of sorting through what was otherwise confounding. It was his way of making sense of himself and the world around him. It was how he rid himself of the emotions he would not allow himself to reflect before those who would exploit them.

  His deepest thoughts and most profound longings had been and were being read by complete strangers. Darcy’s vulnerabilities, which he had laid bare on the page with confidence, had been exposed by a malicious, selfish thief.

  He was exposed. But Miss Elizabeth did not know it.

  He needed to calm himself, to think. His inclination was to put quill to paper, but his journals were not safe. Not anymore.

  He needed more information.

  Uncrossing his arms and trying to relax as if he were enjoying a casual conversation, Darcy said, “I am curious. You said you first read Mr. Wyndham’s poems in the ladies’ magazines… Do you remember how long ago it was when you first saw his poems appear?”

  Miss Elizabeth did not need to think long. “I remember vividly. It was five years ago. The gentleman my mother spoke of who wrote a poem for Jane was so unfortunate as to recite the verse he had penned for her loudly enough for me to hear it. I had only the week before read Mr. Wyndham’s poem, and the superiority of his verse rendered Jane’s admirer’s painfully amateur.”

  Darcy regarded her from the corner of his eye. “So, you own that poetry is the food of love, so long as it is not poorly done.”

  She grinned. “You have found me out. I meant what I said as it pertains to Jane. The poor gentleman simply could not compete. A well-turned verse, though. That is another matter.”

  Darcy repeated to himself, “Five years ago. Interesting.”

  “Is it?” she asked.

  Drat! He had not meant to speak aloud. Scrambling to think of a reply, Darcy determined it best to stick as closely to the truth as possible. A suspicion had taken root in his mind, but the last person in the world he could admit it to was Miss Elizabeth.

  He said, “My father died five years ago. It is not a time I will soon forget either.” Darcy continued before she could express the pity her frown and downcast posture indicated she felt. “In which journals did you find Mr. Wyndham’s poems published? I should like to read more of his work.”

  She tilted her chin, her eyebrow arched and her smile crooked. “You like his poems so much, you are willing to read a magazine written for females?”

  “If his work is not to be found anywhere else, then I do not see what other option I have. I suspect you have read far more extensively than from the edifying tomes to which society limits females. Why should I not do the same?”

  Miss Elizabeth wore her guilt with pride, and Darcy would have had her react no other way. He thought all the more of her for it.

  He continued, “Then I am confident you will not mock me for doing as you do in reading beyond what others consider acceptable.”

  Miss Elizabeth’s laughter tinkled like the tiny bells Georgiana had arranged around the winter sled. “You are full of surprises, Mr. Darcy. Would you not rather ask if you might borrow my book of poetry and save yourself the trouble of scouring the country for old journals and thus exposing yourself to the ridicule of rustic society?”

  “The opinions of others hold no authority over me. Let them say what they will. I would sooner expose myself to their poor opinion than ask for you to part with a book you have only recently acquired and which you clearly treasure.”

  Her eyes bo
re into his; her lips parted.

  Darcy went over the words once again in his mind. He had not said anything offensive, had he? He would have to take greater care.

  She blinked and looked at the carpet. Softly, she said, “It is because you recognize its importance to me that I am willing to lend it to you. I trust you will treat my book with the same care I give it.”

  Miss Elizabeth held the book out to Darcy. An onlooker would only have seen a simple gesture, but Darcy knew its significance. She trusted him with her most treasured possession, and her confidence and generosity overwhelmed Darcy. He had done so little to earn them, and yet, she granted him the opportunity to prove he would not abuse her trust.

  “Thank you. I will not give you reason to regret your trust.” He took the book, pressing it against his chest before his heartbeat betrayed how moved he was by her gesture.

  “I trust you to keep your word.” She looked around her. There were no other books in Bingley’s library to suit her. Not only had he taken her favorite book, he had left her without entertainment. Her sacrifice grew more and more precious by the second.

  He had no time to waste. “Pray excuse me, Miss Elizabeth. I will make quick work of reading Mr. Wyndham’s poems so I might return them to you this evening.”

  She rose when he did, saying, “I will see if Jane wishes to sit in the garden. The change of scenery and company lifted her spirits incredibly yesterday.”

  Darcy had not noticed, but he was glad to hear it. Even more, he was pleased Miss Elizabeth had something else with which to occupy her time while he was otherwise engaged. If his suspicion was correct, he had some urgent letters to write … and a snare for a cunning foe to lay.

  Chapter 22

  Elizabeth had no desire to stay alone in the library. Mr. Darcy had departed mere seconds ago, and already the room had cooled, sending shivers up and down her spine. Jane’s room, on the other hand, would be as warm as a glass house as per Mr. Bingley’s instructions.