Fitzwilliam Darcy, Poet

by Jennifer Joy

  Chapter 24

  Elizabeth felt her hackles rise in defense of Mr. Wyndham, but it rankled her even more that Mr. Darcy presumed to know how she would react. She so badly wanted to prove him wrong — both for her sake and for Mr. Wyndham’s (who was not present to defend himself. Elizabeth had no doubt he would do so marvelously were he in the room.)

  “I have made plain my admiration for Mr. Wyndham’s work, but I hope I am not too intolerant to be unwilling to hear an opinion contrary to my own. You may think what you want, and I may or may not choose to agree with you.”

  Mr. Darcy grinned. His teeth were straight and white and perfect. Was that a dimple? Now, that was not fair. If he thought she would be swayed by a flash of his dimple, then she would have to show him she was made of sterner stuff. It was, however, a pleasant contrast to his normal brooding, grave look. It was difficult not to look at.

  Pulling her eyes up to meet his, Elizabeth was soon distracted by the way the light shifted like the waves of a crystalline blue ocean around his pupils. It was mesmerizing … and disturbing.

  She focused on his eyebrows as he spoke. They were safer.

  “You will admit you were wrong if I offer enough proof to convince you to change your opinion?” he asked, his thick eyebrows bunching together in concentration. In anticipation of a challenge.

  Elizabeth felt his eyes bore into her. She concluded that perhaps his eyebrows were not so safe after all and, instead, focused on his mouth. The devilish tilt of his lips tempted her to smile in turn, and she had to look away before she lost the debate without doing Mr. Wyndham justice.

  She knew she placed herself at a disadvantage by breaking eye contact with the challenger of her opinion, but Elizabeth was running out of facial features safe enough to look at.

  There was nothing to do but force her gaze to meet Mr. Darcy’s. If he wanted a verbal battle, she would give him one.

  She said, “I am not afraid to admit to my mistakes.” And I am not afraid of you, she added to herself silently.

  Mr. Darcy sat up taller, using his superior height to advantage.

  She lifted her chin, unaffected. She had seen their burley groom run from an escaped chicken too many times to feel that size was what mattered.

  Reaching for the book, he opened it to the page labeled My Forbidden Love. Pointing to the title, he said, “This is not a poem about a first love.”

  Elizabeth controlled her reaction. If this was how Mr. Darcy began his argument, he did not stand a chance. Calmly, she asked, “Then what, in your opinion, is it about?”

  He sat back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest and looking so confident, she knew she could never bring herself to agree with whatever Mr. Darcy said no matter how convincing his reasoning was.

  “It is about his horse.”

  She could not have heard him correctly. Shaking her head and wiggling her earlobe, she said, “Excuse me, what?”

  Mr. Darcy’s smile spread from his lips to his glinting eyes.

  He could not be serious!

  He repeated, “This poem is about a horse.” Growing bolder, he uncrossed his arms to point at the title that very clearly read My Forbidden Love.

  “Either you are mocking me or you are teasing,” Elizabeth replied.

  “I never tease.”

  “Then you mock me?” If his hand was not resting on top of the book, she would gladly have snatched it off the table to fling at his head.

  “I do no such thing. I merely offer a distinct point of view.” His smile was gone. He was serious.

  “What are your proofs, sir?” she asked.

  “The essence of the poem which you stated earlier. I agree it is about freedom, but it occurred to me as I was reading that every verse of this sonnet could just as easily be applied to a horse as to a lady. He writes about running through fields…”

  “It is symbolic!”

  “But what if it is literal? You said yourself this is not one of Mr. Wyndham’s best poems. His use of metaphors and symbols improved by the end of the collection, but his first poems were lacking.”

  “I have known ladies to run through fields,” she defended.

  His grin returned. “I only know of one such lady,” he said.

  Elizabeth hated how her cheeks lit on fire. “You would compare me to a horse?” she retorted.

  “I would not do you the injustice, although it is plain to me that you have never enjoyed the bond to be had with a good horse.”

  “I prefer to walk.”

  “So I have noticed.”

  “What about her chestnut mane? He compared it to silk.” There! She had him with that! Horses’ manes were thick and rough.

  “He did not. Read it again.”

  “You wait for me with a glow in your eye, Sunlight weaving gold in your chestnut mane,” Elizabeth read, trying to justify her interpretation when no mention of silk was made. “Very well, but what of the next stanza where he writes: My imperfections you kindly recant, With outpouring love my sorrows you drown. Tell me, Mr. Darcy, how can a horse correct a man and drown his sorrows?”

  “She sounds like an impertinent minx to me, chastising him for his faults and making him better himself.”

  “A horse?” Was the man so stubborn he would stick to his ridiculous reasoning?

  “Horses are every bit as stubborn as we are, sometimes more so. Mr. Wyndham’s horse must have been as obstinate as she was beautiful.”

  Elizabeth was offended to her core, but she would not let on. Since her first reading of the poem, she had applied it to herself. Not that she considered herself a beauty, but she was proud of her thick, unruly tresses. And while impertinence was frowned upon in society, she was proud to have cultivated a mind which could express opinions with confidence and defend them before any gentleman. Except for today. Mr. Darcy had a reply for every point she raised, and Elizabeth hated to even think it, but he had opened her eyes to the possibility of a different meaning to My Forbidden Love.

  She did not have to agree with him or change her own opinion, but she was hard pressed to prove him wrong without appealing to the author himself. Oh, why had she not thought to ask in her letter? She would most certainly do so in the next!

  Feeling better that a solution was within her grasp, Elizabeth used her last argument. “What of the title then? You must admit it is misleading if it was meant for a horse.”

  Mr. Darcy nodded. “It is true. The only explanation I have is that the publisher recognized an opportunity to sell a love poem to a magazine which caters to ladies at a higher price than it would have fetched otherwise.”

  Elizabeth laughed. “That is ridiculous, but I applaud your imagination, Mr. Darcy.”

  He raised a finger. “It is possible. Can you deny it?”

  “I cannot, nor will I waste my efforts in trying when you are clearly decided.”

  “I see I have not convinced you, but you own to the possibility I am right?” he asked, his tone light and teasing.

  “All things are possible,” she said vaguely in turn, knowing he would not be satisfied until she gave him a more direct reply. She added, “You forget, Mr. Darcy, that this is poetry. Did you not say poetry is the food of love? Why, then, would a poet write a love poem to his horse?”

  Deep laughter erupted from Mr. Darcy, the kind of laugh that soon sent tears trickling down his cheeks. It was contagious, and Elizabeth joined in despite her resolve to be firm on her point. She may not have won the debate, but she had struck the final blow honorably.

  Elizabeth tried to subdue herself. She was running out of breath and her cheeks hurt, but one look at Mr. Darcy equally failing to control his laughter was all it took for her to begin anew.

  Until Miss Bingley entered the library. She was like a damp blanket over a roaring fire. She must have followed the noise to them.

  Imagine that. Mr. Darcy raising a ruckus in a room appreciated for its silence… Elizabeth stifled another round of merriment.

  Mr. Darc
y would never be a poet — not when he could turn a poem of love into an ode to his favorite horse. Elizabeth imagined Mr. Darcy proposing to a lady in the same manner he would address his equine (and nearly gave in to another bout of the giggles), but she restrained herself.

  Miss Bingley looked like a boiling tea kettle about to scream. “Pray share your fun with the rest of us,” she said, dragging her sister and Mr. Hurst (who promptly settled into a padded chair and resumed his nap) behind her.

  Elizabeth resented their entrance when she was having so much fun. Fun … with Mr. Darcy. How strange.

  “We were discussing poetry,” said Mr. Darcy, closing Mr. Wyndham’s book and handing it to Elizabeth before Miss Bingley could see the cover.

  Fortunately, the lady was not interested. With a huff, she crossed the room to run her fingers across the spines of the few books gracing Mr. Bingley’s shelves. “Poetry? I suppose it is suitable enough to read when there is nothing else edifying in which to immerse oneself.”

  As if she was the expert in losing herself in a book! Elizabeth bit her tongue.

  Mr. Darcy’s eyes flicked over to Elizabeth, and his dimple appeared ever so briefly. “I have recently acquired a greater appreciation for the art of a well-written verse. Miss Elizabeth was giving me the advantage of her instruction, but I fear I make a poor student.”

  Elizabeth’s guffaw provoked several glares, but she did not care. “You are not completely hopeless.”

  He bowed, one hand over his heart. “I am relieved to know it.”

  Miss Bingley leaned against the end of the table separating them. “Well, it is advantageous you have had your lesson already, as Miss Elizabeth will leave on the morrow.” With a thin smile, she addressed Elizabeth, “We will miss you dearly. I do not know what we shall do for entertainment once you depart from our society. These country villages are so droll, I daresay we shall find ourselves taken upon to return to London.”

  Elizabeth swallowed hard. While she doubted Miss Bingley’s threat to leave Hertfordshire would come to fruition, she was sad to leave Netherfield Park. She would miss her debates with Mr. Darcy … and, of course, Mr. Bingley’s attentions to Jane.

  Jane soon joined them, followed closely by Mr. Bingley, and before long the library was a lively hive abuzz with conversation.

  Elizabeth tried to enjoy their talk, but their speech was not nearly so engaging as Mr. Darcy’s had been. She found herself wishing they would go away and leave them be, but that would not do either.

  Mr. Darcy withdrew as he usually did when surrounded by company, busying himself by reading over the poem she had copied for him. She offered to allow him more time with her book, but he refused.

  Folding the paper in his hand with great care, he tucked it into his inside pocket.

  Elizabeth refused to change her opinion about Mr. Wyndham’s poem, but she also knew she would never quite think of it the same again.

  A horse! she thought, rolling her eyes.

  Poor Mr. Darcy. Elizabeth prayed he never attempted to woo a young lady with a verse of his own creation. It was certain to inspire cringes rather than tender feelings.

  Chapter 25

  Wickham returned later that afternoon, and Elizabeth disappeared as long as one politely could into her rooms. Darcy did not know what the two were up to, but he was satisfied to see with his own eyes that she did not seek Wickham’s company. Her heart was engaged elsewhere … to Walter Wyndham. To a man who did not exist.

  Darcy was not certain who posed a greater threat: Wickham, a gentleman whose own conduct would reveal the truth of his nature sooner rather than later, or Mr. Wyndham, a figment of Elizabeth’s imagination. Her ideal. Her dream.

  It was settled. Wickham was nothing compared to the workings of Elizabeth’s mind. Darcy would sooner compete against flesh and bone than the impossible reaches of one exalted to perfection in the mind of an imaginative maiden. Darcy was doomed to fail, but he had to try. They had laughed. It was a promising start.

  At dinner, Elizabeth seemed out of sorts. She hardly touched her food, and her usual charm was subdued.

  Darcy glowered at Wickham, who had told him nothing other than to confirm he had indeed delivered Darcy’s letters as he had requested, complaining of the delay and detailing the inconveniences it had made him suffer. He was after remuneration, and Darcy gave it to him for his troubles. He was not stingy.

  When the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing room, chairs were lined up in rows. Miss Bingley flounced to the front of the room and seated herself at the pianoforte, beginning an impromptu concert where Darcy knew he was intended to sit in the front row.

  He sat in the last row, behind Elizabeth.

  Leaning forward, he commented, “You seem disappointed.”

  She sighed, her hair brushing against his chin when she leaned back to reply, “I had hoped to conceal it better. Is it that obvious?”

  “I doubt your hosts have noticed. Mr. Bingley sees no one but Miss Bennet, and his sisters suffer from short-sighted vision. They rarely see past their own noses.”

  Miss Elizabeth covered her smile with a gloved hand. “I am relieved to hear it.”

  She turned her attention to Miss Bingley, and Darcy feared Elizabeth would never say what had caused her change in humor. He could not ask again without pressing.

  Once again, Elizabeth sighed and turned. “Have you ever done something you later wished undone?” she asked.

  What had she done? Darcy’s gaze cut over to Wickham. He had been known to get people to do things they later regretted.

  “On more occasions than I am willing to own,” Darcy admitted, wishing to put her at ease and gain her confidence. If Wickham was responsible for Elizabeth’s suffering conscience, Darcy would cut him off quicker than the lout could blink.

  Elizabeth’s jaw moved back and forth, her lips alternately pinching and opening. Her shoulders rose and fell as if she had taken a deep breath, then she whispered over her shoulder, “I sent a letter to my favorite poet, and I received a reply today.”

  Of course, she would assume he disapproved. An unmarried lady sending a letter to a gentleman. It was highly improper, and Darcy would have scolded her had he not understood why she had risked her reputation to communicate with Walter Wyndham.

  Darcy could only be honest. “Under the circumstances, I understand why you acted as you did. Was it Wickham who delivered your letter?”

  She nodded, her ears a crimson red. “I am grateful for your understanding. He said he knew where Mr. Wyndham could be found and offered to convey my letter discreetly.”

  “That was the deal you made with him?” The pieces clicked together, and while a certain measure of relief calmed Darcy’s worries, it also confirmed what he had suspected all along.

  He knew why Elizabeth was upset. It had nothing to do with propriety.

  Again, she nodded. Pressing her hand against her cheek, she added, “I wish I had never sent it.”

  “You were disappointed in the reply,” Darcy said.

  She nodded, her chin dropping to her chest.

  Darcy hated to see her illusion shattered. Nobody but Walter Wyndham — Darcy himself — could have crafted a reply suitable to satisfy her.

  Leaning perilously close to her ear, so close his breath moved the tendrils of curl at her neck, he said, “A great poet would not disturb himself by penning his own reply. No doubt his publisher took it upon himself to write on behalf of Mr. Wyndham. He would not wish to disturb the artist when he has more poems to write.”

  Elizabeth turned her head sharply, her lips an inch from his. “Do you really think so?” she asked, immune to his nearness.

  He was not immune to her. Elizabeth’s rounded lips were close enough to taste, and the temptation to close the distance to her made Darcy ache.

  Darcy’s heart thundered against his ribs, but Miss Bingley’s assault on the ivory keys was enough to call him to his senses. Remembering himself before he compromised a lady who loved
the man in whose shadow Darcy stood, he pulled away. Clearing his throat, he said, “I am certain of it. No doubt, Wickham delivered the letter to his publisher, trusting the gentleman to forward your message. Mr. Wyndham would be outraged if he knew how he had failed you.” Now, that was the absolute truth. Darcy was outraged.

  Miss Elizabeth’s shoulders slumped. “I would not purposefully cause a gentleman to suffer, much less a kind-hearted one like Mr. Wickham. I will say nothing to him, but that does nothing to appease my frustration. To be so close, and to meet with failure…” Her words trailed off as Miss Bingley’s recital came to an end.

  Darcy clapped his hands dutifully, but his mind was engaged elsewhere. His trap was in place, all the pieces were in motion, but for the first time he wondered how his revelation would affect Elizabeth.

  But, of course, it was the best solution. He shook off his doubts, his confidence growing as the night continued.

  Wickham retired early. Darcy considered following him, but the Bennets were to return to Longbourn the following morning, and Darcy could not make himself part from Elizabeth. Not when she might not wish to see him again once she found out.

  He only prayed the messenger did not arrive until after she departed the following day. It would be best if she did not know….

  Chapter 26

  Goodbye. Parting is such sweet sorrow, Darcy thought as the Bennets’ carriage clambered away from Netherfield Park. Tuesday had come faster than Darcy had believed possible.

  Bingley sighed. “I miss her already.”

  Darcy sympathized with his friend. He felt the loss too.

  Wickham clapped Bingley on the back. “Darcy will soon have you too busy to lament Miss Bennet’s absence. He lives to check fences and repair tenants’ roofs.”

  Darcy nodded. He needed satisfying work to do, and a good ride around the property usually did the trick.

  Except, this time it did not.

  Hours later he and Bingley returned to the house, weary and damp and as miserable as they had been watching the Bennets’ carriage leave.