Fitzwilliam Darcy, Poet

by Jennifer Joy

  “Absolutely not,” he declared, standing and putting an abrupt end to their call.

  Now, what was she to think of that?

  Chapter 28

  The following days were frantic with activity at Netherfield Park, and Darcy shouldered far more responsibility than he needed to, hardly finishing with one task before seeing to another. He was teaching Bingley the ways of a master of a well-run estate (or so Darcy told himself.) In truth, Darcy had thought that if he kept himself busy enough, he would not have place for Elizabeth in his thoughts.

  He was mistaken. He was a coward. A coward terrified by a young lady who barely reached his shoulder.

  Darcy had not seen Elizabeth in five days. He would not be able to avoid seeing her on the morrow at Bingley’s ball. And his supposed reading — Walter Wyndham’s reading — was the day after.

  Wickham continued as a guest in Bingley’s household, which told Darcy a great deal more about his situation, given the risk he took in staying. Desperate men often committed to desperate measures. And Wickham was no stranger to risk and carelessness.

  It was early, and a full day of prodding Bingley to make the decisions which must be made awaited Darcy. He was tired, and his patience wore thin. He needed to escape, to taste the freedom a good run across rolling fields gave. The brisk air would sharpen his senses, and he would feel in control of himself again. He was Fitzwilliam Darcy, master of his life, and he would not be brought down just because an impertinent country minx had turned his head.

  Five days had not been enough to forget her, but what were five days? No time at all. He only needed more time away, and he would soon forget her fine eyes and the way they twinkled and sparked just before she said something unpredictable.

  Should he tell her he was Walter Wyndham, the author she loved? Darcy despised this dishonesty, but he did not want to win her that way. It was too easy.

  Win her. Forget her. Decide, man!

  Darcy urged his horse on, but no matter how fast the stallion galloped, he could not outrun the image of Elizabeth in his mind. She was his constant companion. Every suggestion he made to Bingley, every decision Darcy made, was with Elizabeth in mind. He had even suggested to Bingley that the cook leave out the raisins in her cake because Darcy remembered how she had picked them out.

  Would she believe him if he told her the truth? It was so outlandish, Darcy hardly believed it himself. He who never shared his inner thoughts … a published poet. Ridiculous!

  Would she be disappointed?

  So strongly entrenched in Elizabeth were his thoughts, he saw her twirling with her face tilted to the sky and her arms opened wide in the middle of a field. An illusion.

  Darcy blinked. She was still there.

  He slowed his horse, pressing his eyes closed to erase the scene, but when he opened them again Elizabeth was still there. Still twirling.

  Darcy could have turned around. He might have escaped from her without being noticed. But he was sick of feeling like a coward. And he was happy to see her. His chest warmed and his stomach fluttered.

  She stood still now, watching him approach with a smile Darcy knew he did not deserve.

  “Good morning, Mr. Darcy. You are up early,” she said, stepping closer and reaching her hand out for his horse to smell. She was not afraid as he had thought she might be, for all that she preferred to walk rather than ride. He was glad she was not afraid.

  He dismounted, regretting it before his feet hit the ground, but powerless to do anything else. He hated how she disarmed him, how she got him to do things he would not otherwise do without even trying. It made him vulnerable, and there was nothing Darcy feared more than exposing himself to someone who would only use him for her own gain.

  But would she?

  Darcy so badly wished to believe she was different, but he could not easily trust his intuition or even the facts.

  He could tell her. He would know then.

  “Do you mean to attend the Netherfield Ball on the morrow?” she asked pleasantly, falling in beside him as they walked through the field.

  “I could not dismiss myself without appearing exceptionally rude,” he said.

  She laughed. “That has not stopped you before.”

  Darcy deserved that reply, and the complete lack of malice in her truthful observation helped him smile in turn. “I shall make an effort to behave as the gentleman I claim to be. A young lady reminded me, rather forcefully, of that.”

  “I was rather forceful, was I not? I ought to apologize.”

  Darcy waited for her apology, but it did not come.

  Instead, when he looked at her, she smiled impishly and said, “I find I cannot apologize sincerely, and so I will not do so just yet. I fear I will have to try your patience and beg for more time to pass, so I might speak honestly.”

  Her reply was so unexpected, Darcy’s laughter echoed over the rolling hills. “Very well, Miss Elizabeth. I value honesty…” His throat dried. How could he speak of honesty when he had not been completely truthful with her? He had led her to believe he knew nothing of poetry, that he did not care to see Walter Wyndham’s reading.

  She peeked at him from the corner of her eye, her eyebrow raised in expectation.

  Now. Now was the time.

  Darcy opened his mouth, but the words would not come out.

  “There is something I must tell you,” she said, her eyelashes splaying over her cheeks as she looked down, slowing her pace.

  Darcy was relieved she had filled the silence, so he did not have to — relieved and agitated he had not spoken when he had the chance.

  Elizabeth continued, “I could not help but notice the timing of everything. It was not until you sent your letters to London that the notice of Mr. Wyndham’s public reading was printed in the paper. I do not know if you are responsible, but I am inclined to think I have you to thank for the opportunity to finally meet him.”

  Now, man, now! Tell her!

  “I wish I could take credit for fulfilling your dream, but I cannot in sincerity do so,” he said.

  Her eyebrows furled in confusion and her lips tilted downward. He had disappointed her. Again.

  Darcy could endure the war she provoked within him no longer. He would only disappoint her further, and he could not do it. He could not be responsible for ruining her dream with reality.

  He moved his hands up the reins, getting ready to mount his horse.

  “Oh, well, I had hoped … or rather, I guessed wrong then,” she said, patting his horse’s neck and stepping away as Darcy settled into the saddle.

  He tipped his hat to her, mumbled something he hoped was pleasant, and rode away before he betrayed himself (and feeling every inch the coward.)

  Chapter 29

  Darcy raced back to the house as if he were being chased by a raging fire. Never in his lifetime had he loathed himself as he did now.

  He had left Elizabeth standing in the field when a gentleman would have seen her home safely. Elizabeth often walked alone, but that was no justification.

  He held his tongue when he ought to speak, and for what? To protect his own carefully constructed world where he was exalted as an exemplary gentleman? Humph, some gentleman. He was afraid. He was a coward. A coward who could not face Elizabeth’s disappointment when her Walter Wyndham proved to be a flawed man who could not think straight while in her presence.

  That was what it boiled down to. Elizabeth had created an image of her ideal gentleman — an ideal to which Darcy could never measure up. He, Fitzwilliam Darcy, who prided himself on being an exemplary gentleman, was not good enough for the one woman who had captured him body and soul.

  He loved Elizabeth Bennet.

  And she loved another, better version of him. A man Darcy feared he could never be.

  His horse was in a lather when he reined in near the stables. Instructing the stable boy to properly cool down his horse and brush him, Darcy stomped into the house, taking the stairs two at a time in his haste. If he did
not pour out his mind and heart on paper, he would drown in the pool of emotions suffocating him.

  Shoving his door open, his eyes zeroed in on a figure who ought not to have been there.

  Wickham stood by Darcy’s writing desk, a piece of paper in his hands.

  Had it happened another day, Darcy might have been able to control himself better. Not today.

  “You!” he shouted, raising his fist as he closed the distance to the ingrate who had exposed Darcy’s poems to the world.

  Wickham shrank back, holding his hands in front of his face. “Wait, Darcy, not the face! Let us talk about this like gentlemen.”

  “I do not feel like much of a gentleman right now.” Darcy grabbed Wickham’s collar, jerking him up to his toes.

  “Miss Elizabeth was right about you, then,” Wickham said, shielding his face with his hands.

  Darcy froze. It was a low blow, but an effective one. Squeezing the bunched-up fabric of Wickham’s coat and collar, Darcy shoved him away and stepped back lest he succumb to the temptation to mar the scoundrel’s nose.

  Wickham straightened his coat, setting down the paper to smooth his shirt.

  Darcy waited until he had finished his ministrations.

  Finally, Wickham raised his head. He did not meet Darcy’s eyes. “You have caught me red-handed. I will admit I suspected you were on to me when that pretty little article appeared in the newspaper. You surprised me, Darcy. I did not think you would choose to expose me publicly when doing so exposes your great secret.”

  Darcy clenched his jaw. He would not admit to Wickham that it had absolutely not been his idea and risk losing his advantage. No. First, Wickham must answer for his sins.

  Questions flooded through Darcy’s mind. He began with the most urgent. “Why?” he asked.

  Wickham scoffed. “You know me too well. You should not have to ask.”

  “I will hear it all the same.” Darcy wanted Wickham to admit to what he had done, to accept responsibility fully. He would do nothing to make it easier for Wickham.

  “For the money, of course. Do you really think a man with my tastes would be able to live off the paltry sum you gave me in exchange for the value of my living?”

  “How did you know I wrote?”

  Wickham sighed, doing his best to look bored. “You once left your desk unlocked while we were at university. In need of enough funds to see me through the end of the week, I riffled through your papers and found your journal. I read it, hoping to find a secret I could use in exchange for a few coins for my silence … but you are much too proper and honorable to have done what I searched for.”

  He said that as if it were a bad thing.

  Continuing, Wickham said, “What I did find, however, was of far more value. Only I did not realize how valuable until after I had spent the value of my living. By then, I had befriended a literary agent who was in sore straits and, therefore, with few scruples. I copied some of your poems and showed them to him. He was the one to suggest selling them to magazines, so you would not discover them.”

  “Mr. Voles?” Darcy asked. His man of business had said the man was a slimy weasel. It had taken a great deal of convincing, but once Mr. Voles had realized he had been caught, he had turned on Wickham like a vulture.

  Wickham must have guessed as much. His jaw tightened. “One and the same.”

  “If you risked discovery, then why did you print a compilation of my poems, and why the name Wyndham?” Darcy asked.

  “You must admit the name sounds poetic. I needed more money. I thought that if we arranged for the books to be published outside England, you might not ever see one of them.”

  Wickham’s motive in acquiring all sorts of books for Darcy (anything except poetry) became painfully apparent.

  What were the odds Elizabeth’s uncle would be in America and would send her a copy while Darcy was in Hertfordshire with Bingley?

  Pulling his thoughts away from Elizabeth to the traitor in the room, Darcy asked the question that burned the most. “Were we ever really friends? Or have you been using me to get to my poems for your own selfish gain all this time?”

  A flicker of something Darcy prayed was a conscience or remorse crossed Wickham’s face. Slowly, measuring his words, Wickham said, “I have always been a selfish creature, Darcy. If I do not look out for myself, then who will? I have one life to live, and I am determined to fill it with pleasure. You were a means for me to afford it.”

  The stab hit Darcy in the gut, but with pain his stubborn determination rose. “You will leave Netherfield Park before the passing of an hour. I do not want to see you again, and if I ever hear you are within a day’s distance of Pemberley, if you attempt to come near me or my sister, I will have you arrested for fraud and theft. I will see that the rest of your days are filled, not with pleasure, but with the consequences you deserve and have brought upon your own head.”

  Wickham’s eyes hardened and his back stiffened. “What about the reading? You cannot ignore it. If you let me help you, I can make this problem disappear. You can write your poems in peace without being discovered, and I will disappear from your life with my dignity intact.”

  “You want me to allow you to pose as Walter Wyndham at the reading?” No doubt, Wickham would announce his retirement. He would walk away from the mess of his creation without another thought.

  Elizabeth would see through it. She would know it was a farce. Had she not sensed as much in the letter Walter Wyndham had supposedly penned? Her disappointment would be profound.

  Wickham replied, “It is the perfect solution. If you cut me off completely, you will feel guilty when I eventually came to ruin. I would end up owing the wrong men a great deal of money, and they would not hesitate to make me pay by any means. You are too responsible not to be unaffected by my fate. I can help. And your secret would remain that — your secret.”

  “And Elizabeth? What of her?” Darcy asked.

  Wickham shrugged. He did not care. “She has been useful to my purpose. I suspected you had met someone to stir your heart my first night here. You have written more poems this last month than you did the whole year before. When I realized Miss Elizabeth was your muse, I did what I could to improve her opinion of you and lengthen her stay when her sister fell ill. That was a brilliant stroke of fortune.”

  Darcy glared at Wickham. Had he always been this self-serving and devious?

  He continued, “I took some of your poems to Mr. Voles. He assured me they will fetch a higher price … and now with my — er, your — increased fame, I can demand much more. Allow me to pose as Walter Wyndham at the reading. I will announce my retirement, and we can forget the entire affair.”

  Revulsion stung Darcy’s throat. He would not make a deal with the devil no matter what he stood to gain by it. “You will leave me to deal with it.” Darcy pointed at the door. “Go.”

  Wickham left, and Darcy sank down to his writing chair before his legs gave out. Resting his forehead against his hands, too numb to even think, he sat there until he was called in to dinner.

  Chapter 30

  “Lizzy Bennet, you will never fill out your dress like a lady should if you do not eat your dinner,” Mother said, clucking her tongue to admonish Lydia to curb her appetite before she could not fit into her dress at all.

  Mr. Collins, unaccustomed to such bold speech, coughed heavily into his napkin, the boiled potatoes he had praised minutes before causing him some difficulty in swallowing.

  Mary handed him his wineglass, and he imbibed gratefully.

  Elizabeth dutifully took a bite, but her thoughts were far removed from the table.

  What was Mr. Darcy doing now?

  She had been happy to see him earlier that day. She had even provoked him to laugh. And she had thanked him as she had hoped to be able to do.

  Why was Mr. Darcy so moody and cryptic? He praised her honesty, saying it was a trait he valued, but why did she sense he was not being entirely honest with her? He had not specificall
y denied arranging for Mr. Wyndham’s public reading, but Elizabeth had never known Mr. Darcy to speak anything but plainly with her before. Why this intrigue?

  She recalled his exact words: “I wish I could take credit for fulfilling your dream, but I cannot in sincerity do so.”

  If only he knew how he had permeated her dreams. Elizabeth refused to allow that Mr. Darcy could be the man her heart would settle on — not until she had met Mr. Wyndham and could thus forever bury her girlish madness.

  Mr. Darcy was real. Real in all of his moody glory.

  As intimate as her thoughts were, Elizabeth found it difficult to continue to think of him as Mr. Darcy. Darcy? No, much too common. Fitzwilliam? No, that did not feel right either. William? Ah, William. She would call him William in the confines of her mind. It suited him.

  Mother looked at her pointedly with her lips pursed, and Elizabeth hurried to take another bite.

  If only Elizabeth understood what Mr. Darcy was about. He was the most perplexing character she had ever attempted to understand. She wished to understand him. The glimpses he had given her of his true character, free from inhibitions, had convinced Elizabeth that the trouble was worth it. Too often, she recalled their poetry lesson. Every time brought her more joy than the time before.

  But William did not want to go to London. He did not want to meet Mr. Wyndham with her.

  Elizabeth’s stomach twisted. Eating became impossible.

  Since when had William become so important to her, she could think of nothing else? Why was his face replacing her imagined rendering of Mr. Wyndham in her dreams? Would he ask her to dance with him at Mr. Bingley’s ball on the morrow?

  She did not realize how loudly she had sighed until silence fell around the table and she felt everyone’s stares on her person. They wanted an explanation Elizabeth dared not give. The flutter in her stomach spread like a wildfire up her neck to burn her cheeks.