Fitzwilliam Darcy, Poet

by Jennifer Joy

  “She is not well?” Darcy widened his stance, prepared to head in whichever direction Miss Bennet told him to go.

  “She has gone home. She will feel better with a little rest, and all the better to prepare for her trip to London on the morrow.”

  Of course, she would recover in time for that! Anything for Walter-Blast-Him-Wyndham, Darcy thought bitterly.

  “Has the carriage already gone?” he asked.

  “Most likely. I only just left her when I saw you.”

  Darcy dashed out of the entrance hall and down the front steps to the gravel drive where the Bennets’ carriage turned to continue down the lane to Longbourn. Darcy ran after it, but it was too far away to catch. And what would he have said if he had reached the carriage?

  Elizabeth had made her choice.

  The rest of Elizabeth’s family were the last to depart from Netherfield Park the following morning. It had been another long night.

  Darcy had done his duty by the ladies of Meryton and thereabouts. If a lady sat down for more than one dance, Darcy was quick to ask her to join him. He ought to have been pleased to receive so many thankful smiles in exchange for his kindness toward them, to soothe his own conscience for having neglected them at the last assembly, but he was not. He had done it for her.

  Elizabeth had not been there to notice his exertions for her benefit, and all Darcy had to show for his display of gentlemanly behavior were two very sore feet and a surly demeanor. Had she chosen to stay, she would have laughed at him, helping him appreciate the ridiculousness of his suffering in easing that of others. He would have laughed with her, delighting in the knowledge that he had caused her smile and provided a spark for her wit.

  But she was not there. And Darcy was determined to stay at Netherfield Park until she saw that Walter Wyndham was nothing more than a figment of her imagination. She would come to her senses then, and he would be there when she did. He would point out her greatest flaw, her fanciful imagination, just as she had so forcefully made him acknowledge his own faults, and he would…

  Darcy sighed. While he wished for Elizabeth to understand how she made him suffer, he did not wish to be the cause of her suffering. She would be devastated without any help from him, and she would need him to be her friend, for him to be gentleman enough to help her pick up the pieces of her disappointed heart without reminding her of the faults which had led to it.

  “Was last night not delightful, Darcy?” Bingley asked, still peering out of the front parlor window overlooking the drive.

  Darcy did not reply. He had nothing pleasant to say about the evening. The sooner he could put it behind him and forget it, the better.

  Bingley joined Darcy beside the fireplace, watching him, expecting an answer.

  Darcy shrugged his shoulders. It was the best he could do.

  Bingley laughed, and though Darcy’s anger flared, he was too exhausted to correct him.

  “You look how I felt the day Jane left for Longbourn. My mind knew she could not continue here once she had recovered enough to return to her family, but my heart wanted her to feign illness so she could stay until the final reading of the banns.”

  Bingley had Darcy’s attention. “You have proposed?” he asked.

  “Not yet, but I plan to very soon. Every second away from her is torture for my soul. I feel it in my bones until my entire body aches.”

  Darcy exhaled. Not one inch of his person escaped the ache consuming him.

  Bingley considered him for some time, the crackling of the fire loud in the small room.

  “I suspect my sister will find us soon, and so I will speak quickly and plainly, Darcy. You are the expert in all things regarding management. You have no equal in your intelligence and insight. I know I will benefit from your shared wisdom for years to come.” Bingley cleared his throat and shuffled his feet. “However,” he continued, “when it comes to affairs of the heart, I have the advantage over you. It is a flaw to fall in love so easily, I know. But I am not so clever as you. I learn through experience, and several heartbreaks have taught me to recognize the signs of love when I see them. Darcy, my good friend, I see them in you.”

  “You are not helping,” Darcy grumbled. He had neither the desire nor the time to help Bingley understand his predicament.

  “Not if you carry on with that stupid attitude. I was not so blinded with admiration for Jane that I could not observe how easily you and Miss Elizabeth befriended each other. Do you not realize how fortunate you are to have fallen in love with a woman who loves you and likes you? Who will be your lover and your friend?”

  Darcy’s chest tightened. Was this what angina pectoris felt like? He had read about it in a medical journal. He certainly felt like he might die.

  Bingley continued. The man would not shut up. “If you want to brood all day, then be my guest. I am accustomed to your moods. But if you love Miss Elizabeth at all, you will go after her.”

  It was too much. “She chose to leave me.”

  “You told her you love her? You made an offer?”

  “No—”

  “Then, why would you expect her to stay and wait? Miss Elizabeth is handsome and witty. She would not lack for suitors despite what you have said to the contrary.”

  Darcy’s jaw clenched, and he said through his teeth, “She made her choice.”

  Bingley rolled his head back, raising his arms heavenward. “I feel as if I am arguing with a small child. Go after her! Chase her if you must! But do not give in like a proud ninny and live the rest of your days wondering what would have happened had you fought for her like I am prepared to fight for Jane.”

  What if? Darcy’s stomach twisted. He had managed to live his life with few regrets, and he knew he could never forgive himself if he allowed his pride, which was nothing more than fear in disguise (and how he despised disguise!), to interfere with the happiness of a young lady whom Darcy would make happy for as long as they both should live.

  It really was that simple. The ache in his chest relaxed.

  Darcy had avoided regret in his past, and he would be the worst fool to purposefully regret his future. He would not live with what-ifs when it was in his power to avoid them.

  Clasping Bingley’s shoulder, Darcy squeezed. “Bingley, you are brilliant. I must away,” he said, striding to the door where Miss Bingley was only recently entering. She had sense enough to stand aside.

  “What has happened? Did you receive word from dear Georgiana? She has not suffered a calamity, I hope?” she said, one hand covering her mouth in feigned dread and the other clutching her chest over her heart melodramatically.

  Darcy did not slow down to explain. Time was not on his side, and he could not afford to lose a moment. Elizabeth would have left for London hours ago.

  Calling for his horse and groom, Darcy ran up the stairs to get his greatcoat and change into his riding boots.

  Behind him, he heard Bingley say, “He will soon be as happy with Miss Elizabeth as I am with Jane.”

  “Those scandalous Bennets? They have no fortune, no connections! You cannot be serious, Charles!” Miss Bingley exclaimed.

  She was exclaiming still when Darcy descended the stairs minutes later. She was rooted in the same place where Darcy had left her, her complexion mottled and her shoulders hunched up to her ears.

  It was wicked of him, he knew, but Darcy could not resist. Assuming Bingley was still in the parlor, ignoring the scathing remarks of his sister toward a family who dared interfere with her ambitious plans for her austere future, Darcy tipped his hat as he breezed toward the open door where his horse pranced impatiently on the other side. He said, “Goodbye, Bingley. I am away to London where I will propose to my scandalous Bennet sister. I wish you well with yours.”

  Elizabeth would have laughed.

  Chapter 33

  Elizabeth had arrived early with Betsy, the maid she had begged her father to send with her. Nobody had wanted to accompany her after the long, exhausting ball that had only e
nded a short time before. The lures of London were no match for their beds after an evening of diversion.

  Jane would have come, but Elizabeth saw how Mr. Bingley had attended to her, and she had a feeling it was imperative Jane be at home should he call later that afternoon. Happiness may never be in Elizabeth’s future, but she would not deny Jane.

  And so, Elizabeth and Betsy had arrived much too early for the reading at Hanover Square. The large stone building loomed over them. Elizabeth clasped her hands to hide their shaking. This was the moment she had dreamed of. The moment she had longed for.

  They entered the principal room, an enormous hall with tall ceilings and imposing chandeliers. Several men ran between the great room to a smaller room off to the side, carrying chairs back and forth and placing them in the larger hall.

  Elizabeth stopped one such man once he had emptied his arms of their burden. “Excuse me, but where is Mr. Wyndham’s reading to take place?”

  The man bowed his head and wiped his forehead with a swoop of his hand. “It was to take place in the tearoom, but it is already too crowded with ladies. We have been instructed to move the reading to the principal room for your convenience. If you will be so kind as to give us a couple of minutes more, you shall be able to sit comfortably.”

  “We are not the first ones here,” Elizabeth said to Betsy, who was just as curious as Elizabeth was to see how many ladies had assembled a full hour before the reading was to begin.

  “Blimey, miss!” Betsy exclaimed as they peeked inside the tearoom. They did not bother to enter. They would not have fitted in.

  Elizabeth was stunned. “Mr. Wyndham has more admirers than I had thought he would have,” she said, backing away from the crowded room.

  A throaty voice behind her said, “Are you an admirer of Wyndham’s poetry? I had not expected there to be so many of us. The poor man will have a terrible time of it, but I have no doubt I shall be his choice.”

  Elizabeth unhooked her arm from Betsy’s, her reply escaping her with a squeak when she came face-to-face with the lady who could only be Mrs. Prudence Pugmire from the description she had heard from Miss Bingley weeks ago. It turns out, Miss Bingley had not exaggerated.

  Betsy’s eyes widened. “Lord Almighty!”

  Elizabeth squeezed Betsy’s arm to her side. “It is a grand crowd, is it not?”

  Mrs. Pugmire huffed, the hair on the mole above her lip flickering like a miniature whip. Elizabeth tried not to look at it, but the harder she tried, the more difficult it was not to stare.

  Betsy kept her eyes fixed on the toes of her boots, leaving the burden of conversation fully on Elizabeth (not that she would have breached propriety to do so anyway, but Elizabeth thought it all the same and felt equally in the lurch for her lack of an assistant.)

  Pulling a stack of letters from her large reticule, Mrs. Pugmire slapped them in her gloved hands. “I am glad I brought these. Wyndham will have to honor his declarations.”

  That puzzled Elizabeth. Staring at a spot between Mrs. Pugmire’s bulbous nose and one squinty eye, Elizabeth asked, “Is today’s event not a reading?”

  Mrs. Pugmire wheezed and snorted. “Is that why you think so many ladies are gathered today? You must be from the country. Country maidens are not so mercenary as the rest of us in town.”

  There was nothing offensive in Mrs. Pugmire’s manners, and before Elizabeth could reply, the lady continued, “Although, to be honest with you, I am grateful you are merely here for the reading. It means less competition for me, and I need all the help I can get. I am no beauty by any means, but I have these letters and I aim to use them.”

  Elizabeth had to know. “They are from Mr. Wyndham?”

  Mrs. Pugmire fanned her face with them. “Penned with his own hand.”

  “And you say he has declared himself to you in them?”

  “He has,” Mrs. Pugmire beamed proudly.

  Elizabeth’s admiration for the poet died a quick and sudden death. Her Mr. Wyndham would never declare himself in a letter. And with the growing crowd of females packing into the hall, Elizabeth had to wonder just how many women he had declared himself to.

  Leaning closer to Elizabeth’s ear, Mrs. Pugmire added, “Of course, I did my best to ensure his continued devotion by sending him what little gifts and remunerations I could. My dear husband died on our wedding night, leaving me the entirety of my unspent dowry along with his fortune and properties. I was only too happy to bestow some of my excess on a starving poet in need of lodgings and food. As if that were not enough, his poor mother is dreadfully ill. He never complains, but our attachment has grown over the years, and I eventually got it out of him.”

  Elizabeth had left Hertfordshire for this? Mr. Wyndham was nothing more than a money-grubbing charlatan! A rogue who made promises to ladies for whatever he could extract from them.

  Smiling as kindly as her heated blood allowed, Elizabeth said, “I wish you and Mr. Wyndham all the happiness you deserve.”

  Mrs. Pugmire giggled, then moved to the next group of gathered ladies infiltrating the great room to lay her claim on the lout. Well, she could have him!

  “Come on, Betsy. Let us go,” Elizabeth said, pulling the maid across the room.

  “Ah, miss, I am sorry. You must be very disappointed, but we have traveled all this way. Do you not wish to see him at all?” Betsy’s eyes scanned hungrily over the crowd. Turning back to Elizabeth, she added, “He may not be the gentleman you believed him to be, but this gathering promises to be a show worthy of the journey here, I think. Do you not agree, miss?”

  Betsy so rarely got to do anything outside of Longbourn and Meryton, Elizabeth could not deny her a few more minutes entertainment.

  “Very well. But we will stay only as long as necessary for Mr. Wyndham to appear. Then, we really must leave.”

  The ladies had filed out from the tearoom and also poured in from their carriages in the square, filling the seats as soon as they were placed in cramped, even rows.

  Elizabeth lingered toward the back, promptly snatching two chairs in the last row nearest the doors. Their escape would be an easy one.

  A man with greasy combed-over hair walked onto the platform and cleared his throat. He introduced himself as Mr. Voles and informed the growing female public that Mr. Wyndham would arrive any minute.

  A gentleman breezed into the room just then. Elizabeth recognized him, and only the realization that she was not surprised to see Mr. Wickham there at all curbed her frustrated fury.

  This whole reading was a farce. If Mr. Wyndham existed at all, he was not present in the room for if Elizabeth was certain of anything, it was that Mr. Wickham had not written one word of the poems she so dearly loved. And he was completely unapologetic about it.

  He swaggered and grinned up to the stage. Ladies swooned, the hum of their excited whispers buzzing in Elizabeth’s ears.

  She could stand it no longer. Grabbing Betsy’s hand and tugging her along, Elizabeth charged away from the sickening setting.

  She had given up any chance, any future, she might have had with William for this?

  Supporting herself against the thick stones of the building, Elizabeth leaned back and closed her eyes. Frustration and dashed hope streamed down her cheeks and shattered against the pavement in crystal drops.

  Chapter 34

  Darcy was grateful for the company of his groom. The good man saved them precious minutes Darcy would have had to waste in finding a stable close to Hanover Square. He might have been tempted to ride his horse inside the hall. The rooms were large. He would have fitted.

  Handing his reins to the groom, Darcy dismounted and rounded the corner to the front of the building … and stopped short.

  What little sun was to be had on that gloomy day shone on the pavement in front of Elizabeth. She leaned against the building, her head resting against the pale stones, her face tilted up with her eyes closed. Her tear-stained cheeks pulled at his heart. The way she beat her fisted hand against t
he side of the building tugged his lips into a smile. She was angry … as well she ought to be.

  She would be angry with him, and Darcy knew he deserved it. He could bear her ire far better than he could her separation. Were it up to him, he would never part from Elizabeth’s side from that day forward.

  A young lady who must have been a maid from Longbourn saw him. She lifted her hand to tap Elizabeth on the shoulder, but Darcy raised his finger to his lips to quiet her.

  Treading softly on his boots, he approached, stopping in front of Elizabeth so that his shadow fell over her form.

  Her eyelids fluttered open, and all the words Darcy had recited during the ride between Netherfield to London escaped him.

  “How do you do it?” he whispered. “You are more beautiful every time I see you.” Carefully, he lifted his fingers to dry her cheek.

  Elizabeth closed her eyes again. She did not pull away from his hand, and it took every bit of Darcy’s self-control not to wrap her in his arms and kiss her sorrows away on that busy London street.

  The maid was no help. She made a point of spinning to face away from them. Darcy wondered if Mrs. Bennet had trained her.

  “You changed your mind,” Elizabeth said, smiling, her eyes sparkling and her whole demeanor showing Darcy her pleasure in seeing him.

  “You have that effect on me, it would seem,” Darcy teased.

  Elizabeth bit her lip and looked down at her wringing hands. “I had thought… It is silly of me, really, but I had hoped…” She looked at him uncertainly.

  She did not need to say more for Darcy to understand. It was as Darcy had prayed it would be. Did she wonder if he was Walter Wyndham? It was a daring thought, and one he doubted she would admit even to herself, though the recesses of her mind might have wished it. She did not ask because then she would rightly wonder why he had not told her so before. It was time.

  But Darcy would reveal the truth in his way.