Fitzwilliam Darcy, Poet

by Jennifer Joy

  Had she been too hasty to offer her book to Mr. Darcy? What would he think of the poems? What if he did not like them?

  Elizabeth huffed. Since when did she give a fiddle for what Mr. Darcy thought?

  Still, she was curious. Surely there was no harm in that.

  Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley were displaying their best hostess manners to Jane when Elizabeth returned to her bedchamber. All three of them sat by the closed window, and Jane looked positively miserable (and spectacularly pink) enveloped in the wraps they insisted she wear indoors.

  They meant well, and Elizabeth tried to think kinder of them for Jane’s sake.

  However, as generous as they were willing to be around Jane, the two sisters stiffened and raised their noses the second they noticed Elizabeth enter the room. She could have reassured them they had no reason at all to consider her a threat to whatever game it was they wished to win. But to do so would be to acknowledge there was a competition, and Elizabeth had no desire to compete with them or anyone else. She had Mr. Wyndham, and it was enough.

  The sisters fell silent, looking toward the door as if planning how to make their escape without giving offense.

  Elizabeth smiled. “I see you are ready to go out of doors already.” Looking at Miss Bingley and her sister, she added, “How thoughtful of you to think of Jane’s comfort.”

  Jane looked longingly toward the window. “I do not hear any rain. I suppose we ought to seize the opportunity to enjoy a few minutes of fresh air.”

  Miss Bingley looked as if she had swallowed a gnat, but she could not argue with the suggestion when it had, apparently, been her idea. How very thoughtful she was. And generous. Let us not forget that.

  Though his sisters walked on their tiptoes, Mr. Bingley heard them scuffling down the hall. Opening his study door and peeking through the opening, he soon volunteered to join them, claiming he was in great need of a break from all the work Mr. Darcy had given him to do.

  Elizabeth imagined a tottering stack of books on one side of Mr. Bingley’s desk and pages smeared with hastily made scribbles on the other. She admired Mr. Bingley’s dedication, but she knew enough of Mr. Darcy to know he would be a demanding tutor. Anything he set his mind on doing would be done well and thoroughly.

  And so, once again, Elizabeth found herself out in the garden with all the residents of Netherfield Park (except, of course, Mr. Darcy.) Miss Bingley complained about his absence, and Elizabeth took a little naughty pleasure in letting the young lady fret when she could have alleviated her worry by telling Miss Bingley that he was harmlessly ensconced indoors with a book.

  Jane, feeling much improved, was charming company. Mr. Bingley certainly seemed to find her charming. Maybe Mother knew what she was about after all, Elizabeth thought.

  The conversation was plentiful with Mr. Bingley there to move it along, and Elizabeth participated when she was not watching the fields and lanes for Mr. Wickham’s return or looking up to the windows where she knew Mr. Darcy sat reading her book in his rooms. She wished she could read his mind right now. What if he did not like the poems? What if he thought them silly? What if he did not appreciate their imperfections as she did? What if he thought less of her for admiring them as she did?

  “You are so much improved, Dearest Jane, I do not know what Louisa and I shall do when you finally do depart. Tell us, how much longer do you mean to stay with us?” Miss Bingley asked, her tone sharp and her lips pulled into a sneer.

  Elizabeth snapped to attention, but Mr. Bingley was quicker to reply.

  “You must not think of departing at all!” he said, inciting gasps from his sisters. His face lit up like a lantern when he realized his blunder. “I mean … before a full week has passed.” Losing his color as quickly as he had gained it, his eyes widened as he added, “Unless you wish to leave, that is. Of course, if you wished to depart, I am no one to prevent it … though I would wish to. Prevent it, I mean.”

  Jane stopped Mr. Bingley before he dug a bigger hole for his sisters — who were huffing and puffing like offended dragons — to bury him in. “I cannot imagine a more pleasant place in which to pass my illness than here, and I thank you for your hospitality toward me and my sister. I am certain I should not have recovered anywhere else so quickly, and to you I know I owe the credit for it.” Wisely, she chose that moment to look at Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, granting them the benefit of her praise for them to bask in. They could not remain overly offended with Jane when she plied them so freely with compliments.

  “I am glad to hear it. Very glad. Overjoyed,” Mr. Bingley said, and the sweet smile Jane bestowed upon him before returning her attention to his sisters (lest they should notice the exchange) restored a healthy color to his complexion.

  A chilling breeze pierced through Elizabeth’s spencer, and she noticed how Mr. Bingley dutifully moved so as to shield Jane from the worst of it, effectively moving close enough to her that their knees touched. His thoughtful gesture warmed Elizabeth’s heart. She imagined Mr. Wyndham would have done the same.

  If Mr. Bingley and Jane had not reached an understanding before that afternoon, Elizabeth was certain they had just now with the smiles and meaningful looks they exchanged. Mother had, indeed, known what she was about.

  When Jane shivered, Mr. Bingley declared it was too cold for her to remain out of doors. He suggested moving their party to the breakfast parlor where they could warm themselves with hot tea and a repast — a kind solution his sisters were eager to deny him now that they were slowly awakening to the danger Jane presented to their brother.

  “Charles, how can you suggest such a thing? See for yourself how exhausted Dear Jane is. She is pale and looks rather poorly,” said Miss Bingley.

  “I think she looks lovely,” he mumbled.

  Jane stood. “Perhaps we can delay the tea a little while. Your sisters have been so attentive in seeing to my care and entertainment, it is only fair I should retire to my room for a time, so they might see to their other duties.”

  Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley were pleased with her answer, and Jane was restored in their favor … until Mr. Bingley stood beside Jane and offered her his arm. He said, “How very thoughtful of you, Miss Bennet. Might I suggest we meet in the parlor in one hour then?”

  Mr. Bingley would not deny himself the pleasure of Jane’s company. Elizabeth waved her fist in the air in triumph (figuratively speaking, that is. She could afford no outward displays of victory until Jane’s name was signed next to Mr. Bingley’s in the parish’s marriage register.)

  His sisters glared daggers at him, but Mr. Bingley was impervious to their disapproval. He did not notice anything or anyone besides Jane, whom he proudly escorted back inside the house.

  Having nobody else to glare at, Miss Bingley cast her sharpest glance at Elizabeth, taking Mrs. Hurst’s arm and leaving Elizabeth alone. Had she known Elizabeth at all, she would have known how little the cut affected her. She was too comfortable in her own company.

  With one final look over the fields and paths, Elizabeth again looked up at Mr. Darcy’s windows.

  He waved at her.

  Chapter 23

  Startled into action, Elizabeth followed the rest of their party indoors. How long had Mr. Darcy been at the window? Why was he there? Had he tired of the poems already?

  Jane stood at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for her. She did not say anything. She did not need to. Her feelings were as plainly written across her features as if she had spoken them aloud. She was in love with Mr. Bingley.

  Elizabeth did not say anything either. Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst were nowhere to be seen, but she would not risk Jane’s future happiness by being overheard by them. Clasping Jane’s hand, Elizabeth squeezed it to her side as they walked up the stairs to their rooms. Not that she had anything to do once she got there. Mr. Darcy still had her book, and she had read the novels she narrated aloud for Jane too many times for them to capture her interest wholly.

  Did he like Mr. Wyndham�
��s verses? With each passing minute, it became more important to Elizabeth that Mr. Darcy approve of her favorite poems — not her poems, Walter Wyndham’s poems.

  Had she known how dreadful she would feel to expose her treasure to the harsh opinion of Mr. Darcy, she never would have offered for him to read it. Every passing minute added to her anxiety until Elizabeth was very near agony.

  They reached the top of the landing, and Mr. Darcy’s back was the first thing Elizabeth saw. He was impossible not to notice, being so tall and his shoulders so wide.

  He spun around to face them, his eyebrows raised in surprise and his gait rushed. Had he been pacing the hall?

  One second Jane was at her side, and the next, she had gone. Elizabeth noticed in time to see her sister slip inside her bedchamber, biting her lips together in a poor attempt to conceal her smile before she closed the door and disappeared from view.

  Mr. Darcy stepped closer to Elizabeth. Had he been waiting for her?

  He held her book out, shoving it toward her.

  “You did not like them?” she blurted out, taking the book and wrapping her arms around it protectively.

  “To the contrary. They were remarkably familiar to me, as if I had been reunited with an old friend I have not seen these many years. It was then I realized I could not deny you their company.”

  “Oh,” Elizabeth said, loosening her hold around her treasure and cursing her eloquence for escaping her when she wished to speak intelligently. She had not expected such a favorable reaction from Mr. Darcy, and she admired how easily he expressed how she felt when she read one of Mr. Wyndham’s poems.

  “Thank you,” she added, grateful that while she was denied wit, she could at least show she had not completely lost her good manners.

  He bowed, and a whiff of Mr. Darcy pierced her senses. Shaving cream? Soap? It was pleasant — whatever it was — and distinctly masculine. Fortunately, he stood before she could close her eyes and inhale (as she had been about to do.)

  “It is I who should thank you, Miss Elizabeth. I shall have to find a copy somehow.”

  “Oh, but that is impossible. I only got it because my uncle sent it to me from America. If it were available here in England, believe me, I would have found it.”

  His eyes narrowed, and he shoved his fingers through his thick, wavy hair. Elizabeth had not noticed before how dark Mr. Darcy’s hair was, almost black in the shaded hall. His bright eyes glowed as if they had their own source of illumination. How strikingly blue they were. How had she not noticed before? They were a glimpse of azure summer sky, those rare cloudless days when the air was warm and felt like it caressed her as she walked through the fields surrounded by a blue so intense it made her squint her eyes.

  “That is unfortunate,” he said.

  “You could copy the poems on paper,” she blurted. This was becoming a habit — a very bad habit she needed to stop.

  Mr. Darcy smiled, and Elizabeth forgot to be cross with herself.

  “A perfect solution,” he said.

  She extended the book to him once again, but he shook his head. “No. I will not ask for you to part with your collection again. I have some letters I must see to immediately, but would you agree to meet me again in the library on the morrow with Mr. Wyndham’s poems after you have broken your fast?”

  Agree to meet a gentleman in a room few others in residence entered? Had another man suggested the same, Elizabeth would have rejected the idea immediately. But she was in no danger from Mr. Darcy.

  She agreed.

  Darcy paced in the library just as he had paced the hall in front of the Bennet sisters’ rooms the afternoon before. It was becoming a habit. A bad one.

  He sat, his foot fidgeting as he watched the door. No, that would not do either.

  He stood by the window, resignedly resuming his pacing when he could not stand still.

  Miss Elizabeth made him nervous, and, truth be told, he looked forward to seeing her after spending the entirety of the evening prior writing letters. He had already sent them, paying his groomsman handsomely for delivering them personally to Darcy’s man of business, his solicitor, and to the individual “Mr. Wyndham” trusted to negotiate the sales of his poems once his identity was discovered.

  Darcy would have liked to have seen to the matter himself, but he could not appear to be suspicious if his plan was to work. He must keep his head down, and even more importantly, keep Miss Elizabeth busy so she would not unwittingly spring his trap prematurely.

  He paused, closing his eyes. Isabella had been everything he had thought a young lady ought to be. But her beauty had not been genuine. Her gentleness had been a farce covering a cruel heart.

  The lady who had been incomparable to him before now made him shiver in revulsion. He had trusted her with his secret. He had laid bare his heart to her. And she had abused his loyalty.

  “Mr. Darcy?” The sound of Miss Elizabeth’s voice snapped his eyes open. She was a stark contrast to Isabella, but Darcy did not yet know if she could be trusted. He dared not reveal the truth to her. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

  She saw the papers and ink he had set out on the table. “Have you another pen? I can help you write, or I fear this may take all morning.”

  Very clever. She was cautious, too.

  Asking the footman Darcy had requested to stand nearby to fetch another quill and inkwell, Miss Elizabeth wasted no time transcribing. She had an even hand and her letters were easily read without losing their sophistication. She did not need to refer to the book, knowing the poems she wrote from memory.

  Darcy moved closer to see the title. My Forbidden Love. He stifled a groan. While the thief had left Darcy’s poems alone, he had altered the titles — no doubt, to keep from being discovered. Darcy would never title a poem My Forbidden Love. It held little meaning and, especially in this case, it was grossly misleading. What did Miss Elizabeth understand from the poem? Darcy wished to know.

  “I think this must have been one of Mr. Wyndham’s earlier poems,” Darcy stated casually.

  Miss Elizabeth set down the pen and lifted her chin to face him. “If you mean to imply that it lacks the smooth elegance of his later works, then I agree with you. However, the lack of polish adds to the depth of his meaning. Can you not sense the intensity of his first love?”

  “First love?” Darcy choked. Dear Lord, if she only knew! If only he could tell her.

  “Yes. He describes his lady with an attention to detail only a man in love would bother to notice.”

  Taking a deep breath and willing himself to composure, Darcy took the seat opposite Miss Elizabeth, saying, “Ah. The sunlight glowing in her chestnut hair? Allow me to point out how many young ladies fit that description.” Miss Elizabeth included. Her eyes were exceedingly fine, sparking with golden wit. Her hair was chestnut brown, but he had noticed from his position above the garden the day before how the sun warmed her tresses to a glowing auburn that matched her fiery personality.

  In some ways, she reminded Darcy of the “lady” who had inspired him to pen the poem Miss Elizabeth had copied … but he could not tell her that. She would surely be offended. Any lady would be.

  She looked frustrated at him, but she waited to speak until the footman set the second pen and inkwell on the table. And then she let loose. “True love cannot be founded on something so fickle as appearance. Looks fade and change over time. Eyes will grow dull with age. Silken locks turn gray.” She pushed her page toward him, pointing at the bottom quatrain. “See this? His devotion is based on what he values most. She is genuine despite her faults, and only with her does Mr. Wyndham feel free to be himself. They treasure each other as they are, faults and all, but his intense devotion to her makes him want to improve — to be a better man. If every union were founded on such a strong value as honesty, I think it would be rare to encounter a man and woman miserable in their marriage. It is a great tragedy they were kept apart when they ought to have been happy together.”

  Darcy s
tared at the page. What Miss Elizabeth described was exactly what he longed for. She understood him. No. She understood Walter Wyndham. No wonder she defended his work. His thoughts were in union with hers. No. Darcy’s thoughts were in union with hers. Only she did not know it. Confound it all, this was confusing!

  Darcy shifted in his seat and pushed the page back to her, trying to pretend he was not shaken in the least when even his breath trembled. He said, “If you do not need the book, I will begin writing the next poem.” Like her, he did not need the book to know the words, but he could not tell her that.

  Darcy groaned inwardly. He was not being completely honest with her. Should he tell her the truth?

  No. Not yet. Not until he could gain the upper hand and silence the thief and revealer of Darcy’s innermost thoughts. He clutched his stomach, the knowledge that his poems were being read by others making him sick all over again.

  “Mr. Darcy, are you well?” Miss Elizabeth asked, her soft brown eyes filled with concern for him.

  And his stomach twisted again as he realized how much he liked being the recipient of Miss Elizabeth’s concern. Him, not Walter Wyndham.

  Her family was unbearable, and Miss Elizabeth had nothing outside of her wit, her charm … herself … to recommend her to someone like him who had been accustomed to nothing but the best. And yet, without what he would consider her faults, she would not be the woman who had captured his attention. She would not hold the same intrigue that never failed to surprise him. The challenge of looking beyond her circumstances to understand her as she seemed to understand him lured Darcy like a hound after the fox. And Miss Elizabeth was a clever fox. Clever enough to figure out the identity of Walter Wyndham before Darcy did, unless he was careful.

  He had to play this game until he held all the cards. Then, he would tell her.

  Taking a deep breath, he said, “You will not approve of my reflections. They are hardly flattering to your poet.”