by Jennifer Joy
Holding out his arm, he asked, “Shall we go inside? I promise I will explain the matter to you fully, but there is something I must see to immediately.”
“Mr. Wickham is in there,” she said.
“I know. And he will soon know of my presence.”
She took his arm, and together, they entered the room as Wickham was reciting the poem he had called My Forbidden Love. He did a poor job of it, though his audience did not seem to care. They giggled and sighed behind fans.
Darcy instructed the maid to find seats. He hated to let go of Elizabeth, but he could not risk taking her with him to the stage.
Sure enough, on completion of the poem he had slaughtered, Wickham raised his head to better receive his applause … and he saw Darcy.
Without so much as an adieu, Wickham leapt off the stage, weaving his way between the ladies blocking his path.
Darcy had anticipated his move. Wickham was a lover, not a fighter.
Turning, Darcy ran so he stood between Wickham and the door just as his foe had pushed his way through the bevy of admiring ladies.
Wickham stopped short within arm’s reach. It was perfect.
Grabbing the back of Wickham’s collar, complete with a few clumps of hair to ensure he could not wiggle out of his grasp, Darcy marched Wickham back to the front of the room, stopping at the foot of the stage.
There was a free seat, reserved for him, no doubt, by Mrs. Pugmire. (You never forget such a lady.)
Darcy shoved Wickham down onto the chair, only loosening his grip when Mrs. Pugmire assured Darcy and all the witnesses around them that she would not permit Wickham to leave her side. She went so far as to loop her arm through his possessively, proving her point and leaving Darcy to suspect the lady had designs on Wickham that involved much more than holding him in place for the next few minutes. She snuggled into the ingrate with a forever kind of contented glow spreading over her face.
Darcy turned to the stage. Taking care of Wickham would be the easy part.
He walked to the center of the platform and faced the assembly of faces, all directed at him. Darcy prayed his heart would not burst. His entire body trembled at the sight of the hundreds of eyes aimed at him. They watched and waited for him to expose his secret.
There were so many of them. A sea of ringlets and waving fans. Darcy swallowed hard. He had made a promise, and he would not break it.
He inhaled deeply, his breath shaking as violently as his hands trembled. Until he saw Elizabeth. Her sweet encouraging smile lent him courage as his vision closed around her.
Taking another deep breath, Darcy began.
Chapter 35
Elizabeth exhaled along with William. The dear man looked as if he might faint or fall ill. When he finally found her in the crowd, she smiled encouragingly, knowing, because she felt his nerves along with him, that what he was about to do came at great cost.
He pulled a small leather journal out of his pocket and opened it. The pages were thick and wavy with wear. When he found what he searched for, he held it up for the crowd to inspect. Pointing to the page, he said, “This is the diary I kept during my first year at Cambridge. The entries are dated, and on this particular day of December 20, 1801, I had returned to visit my family to discover that my favorite horse had died weeks before my arrival. I was heartbroken. I had lost a dear friend, and I regretted not taking her with me even though she was advanced in years and I had left her behind for her own comfort.”
Sympathy settled in Elizabeth’s throat.
The ladies in the room fell silent. Fans stilled.
Taking a deep breath, William continued, “Not knowing how else to express my grief, I wrote a poem in her honor. You know it as My Forbidden Love because the man who stole my poem for his own gain correctly assumed that my title, Impertinent Minx, did not sound so romantic and would not draw the sum he demanded.”
Elizabeth’s jaw dropped. So, it had been about a horse! How many times she had run through the fields or peered into the mirror to admire her chestnut locks because she knew that somehow — impossibly — the poem had been written about her! Oh, the vanity!
A horse!
William bit his lips together, but his eyes smiled into hers.
Several other ladies gasped in the audience, and Elizabeth’s self-censure eased in the knowledge that she was not the only lady to have made the same assertion. (Of course, they had not argued with the author or written him off as a lost cause when he did not share her erroneous opinion.)
Oh my.
William was the author. William is Walter Wyndham.
Elizabeth pressed her cold fingers against her mouth. Her dreams had been smarter than she was. Somehow, somewhere in the depths of her mind, she had hoped. Mr. Wyndham had been William all along.
The bodies in the room faded, leaving only herself and William. He smiled at her, and she beamed back at him. He was real. He was wonderful. And how she loved him with the whole of her joyous heart.
He continued — not the proud and distant Fitzwilliam Darcy she had met at the Meryton Assembly, but the sympathetic, warm man she now knew him to be — saying, “While I will admit I was horrified when I learned my poems had been shared with the world — poems I have protected in secrecy for many years for fear of having the depth of my emotions exposed for others to mock and exploit — I must also admit that I am relieved and humbled you have received my work so kindly. Thank you. You have proven to me that where one sees vulnerability as a weakness, others simply see beauty in honesty.”
A collective sigh echoed through the room. Elizabeth’s eyes prickled with the love her heart could not contain.
The ladies listened in mesmerized silence while William continued, “You came here today to discover the identity of Walter Wyndham. I am afraid he does not exist as you might have imagined him. His career cannot continue beyond this assembly.”
That announcement provoked a few gasps, but nobody argued the point. Who would, given the circumstances?
“However,” William said, once again speaking directly to Elizabeth, “I prepared a parting poem especially for you, and I will share it now in gratitude of your support and immense understanding.”
He did not pull a paper out of his pocket to read. He recited from memory.
Elizabeth felt the curiosity of hundreds of ladies looking at her, their eyes flickering between her and William, who never wavered his gaze from Elizabeth.
He began:
Shall I compare you to my favorite horse?
Elizabeth gasped, and William’s dimple flashed in a wide grin.
“No, that is not it. Pray allow me to try again,” he said.
In a deep tone as soft as velvet, he began:
I used to dream of finding my equal
Until I met a lady beyond reach
From my pride did her prejudice recoil
And in each other’s faults, we found love’s breach.
You marched into my thoughts and stood your ground;
With honest conviction you won my trust;
Finer eyes than yours I have never found;
My marble defenses crumbled to dust.
Wit is your sword; humor, your sturdy shield.
With sun-kissed skin and golden chestnut hair,
Against such weapons I am glad to yield
And in paltry verse lay my feelings bare.
William hopped down from the stage, closing the distance between himself and Elizabeth. Dropping to one knee, he took her hand in his, brushing his lips over her palm, his unshaved whiskers sending delightful shivers up her arm.
He concluded his sonnet.
Marry me, please, Elizabeth Bennet.
My life is not whole without you in it.
In her wildest imagination, Elizabeth could never have dreamed of a more romantic proposal.
She nodded, enthusiasm lending vigor to her gesture and power to her voice when she shouted, “Yes!”
William pulled her forward as he stood, an
d Elizabeth took refuge in his strong arms. Tears streamed down her cheeks that ached from her constant smile. Drunk with happiness, she hiccupped.
Cheers and the staccato of clapping hands surrounded them, but William ignored them brilliantly. His hold did not weaken until she raised her face. There was something she needed him to know.
“I wanted Mr. Wyndham to be you. I wanted him to be you more than I have ever wanted anything,” she said, her voice choking into a whisper as she succumbed to happiness.
William’s fingers caressed her face, drying her cheeks as he leaned closer.
His lips were as close to hers as they had been during Miss Bingley’s recital. That had been an accident. Today, in the crowded assembly room, William’s nearness was by design. Elizabeth’s mouth tingled in anticipation.
William did not disappoint.
The noise of the crowd faded, and Elizabeth’s eyes closed as he wrapped his hand around her waist and lowered his lips to hers.
Fireworks sparked from the top of Elizabeth’s head down to her curled-up toes. She tightened her hold around William. If she was going to float into the clouds, she wanted him with her. Her poet. Her love. Her William.
Chapter 36
An interloper tapped Darcy on the shoulder. He ignored it, as a gentleman is wont to do in the middle of a pulse-pounding, heart-melting kiss with the woman he loved and respected more than the sum of everyone he had ever held in high esteem.
A hand — Darcy could only suppose the same one which had been tapping his back insistently — gripped his shoulder and shook it, saying jovially, “I wish you happiness on this joyous day. To think I am in good part responsible for your match fills me with great satisfaction.”
The interruption was bad enough, but the source of it was unforgivable.
Standing erect, Darcy would have wound his fist back for greater impact had Elizabeth not wiggled her fingers through his and held him tight.
She addressed Wickham, “What you have done is inexcusable and immoral. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
Darcy nodded. What she said.
Wickham looked stunned. “But if you had not read Darcy’s poetry, you would not have known he was your match.”
“You benefited from the deepest thoughts of a man you claimed as a friend. You are reprehensible, sir,” Elizabeth said, the bite in her voice carrying through the silent room filled with eavesdropping ladies who would never fall for Wickham’s charm after what they heard.
Except for one woman…
Mrs. Prudence Pugmire, true to her word, stood guard over Wickham as Darcy had asked her to do. Where all the other eligible ladies saw an unrepentant, irredeemable rogue, she clearly saw an opportunity.
Her face flushed, her breath quick, and a bead of sweat trailing down her temple, Mrs. Pugmire grinned widely as she tightened her hold around Wickham’s arm. He could not shake her off no matter how hard he tried (and try, he did.) For every step he attempted to take away from Mrs. Pugmire, she closed the distance until her side was pressed more firmly against his.
“I have letters,” she announced.
Elizabeth dropped her voice, saying to the eager woman, “Are you certain you wish to attach yourself to such a man? You know what he is; what he has done.”
Mrs. Pugmire flicked the fan dangling from the wrist of her free hand open, fluttering it before her face. “I thank you for your concern, Miss Bennet. However, from my view, Mr. Wickham offers the perfect solution to my predicament. You see, I am lonely, and I want for charming conversation and a handsome face to gaze upon. I realize such a man is not easily caught, but I have the means to ensure his cooperation, and I will not hesitate to use them.”
Wickham shivered and tried to pull away yet again. There were few things he could not bring himself to suffer, and Mrs. Pugmire was foremost among them.
Dropping her fan, she pulled a packet of letters from her reticule.
Wickham’s eyes widened as large as tea saucers, and he attempted to grab the damning proof away from her. But she was clever and held them just out of his reach.
With a victorious grin, she said, “Ah, so you recognize you are in no position to negotiate with me. I hold your future in my hands, Mr. Wyndham … or, shall I call you Wickham … and you will do as I bid. Before all of these witnesses, you will admit you are compromised or I will gladly allow every lady in this room to read these pages.”
Wickham paled.
“You do not like the idea of others reading the contents of your letters? Tut, tut, you should have thought of that before exposing Mr. Darcy’s poems to the masses, my dear. Surely, you do not expect fairer treatment than you have given to him,” she added.
Darcy liked Mrs. Pugmire. Once she was safely attached to another, he considered they could even become friends. One look at Elizabeth’s smile confirmed she felt the same.
Mrs. Pugmire grinned contentedly. She had Wickham, and she knew it. “As I thought. Very well, then, these are my terms. I will provide generously for your needs. You will live the life of a leisurely gentleman, complete with an adequate gambling allowance which you are by no means to exceed. In exchange, you will keep me company and allow me to show you off in society. Our betrothal will be announced in all the newspapers, so I may gloat over my conquest before every gentleman who has ever snubbed me and every lady who would not befriend me because I am not stylish enough to suit them. From the day of our wedding ceremony, you are never to part from my side.”
Elizabeth mumbled to Darcy, “She will not let him out of her sight. We spoke before the reading, and the lady is determined.”
She was perfect.
Darcy’s admiration for Mrs. Pugmire strengthened to the point he had to ask once again, “Are you certain?”
“I am determined,” was her reply.
Darcy would not argue with her further. She knew what she wanted, and now that Wickham was literally in her grasp, she was not letting him go.
Wickham looked positively miserable as the ladies he had been able to woo with his charm turned their noses up at him and whispered unflattering comments behind their fans. Word would spread throughout town before the end of the day, and any influence he had held would disappear before the setting of the sun.
Darcy was satisfied.
Mrs. Pugmire was jubilant.
And Elizabeth…
Returning to more important matters, Darcy raised Elizabeth’s hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. She had not needed to bruise them to strike her blows. Her words delivered a far more effective jab, and Darcy prayed never to forget it. He vowed to never give her cause to be disappointed in him ever again.
“Shall we return to Longbourn? There is a matter of great importance I wish to discuss with Mr. Bennet,” he said.
The smile with which Elizabeth answered lightened Darcy’s feet until he believed it possible he could fly all the way back to Hertfordshire.
Epilogue
One month later
Darcy waited in the library at Pemberley. A tea tray full of treats to delight Elizabeth’s senses lay in the middle of the table by the fireplace. He hurried to remove the vase of flowers he had cut from the hothouse before the heat of the fire wilted them, pausing with the bulky china in his hands when he did not know where best to position them. Everything had to be just right.
He squeezed his arm against his pocket. Yes, it was still there — the token he had made for her.
She entered the room then, catching him shuffling about with an armful of blossoms. Darcy would have felt like a fool, but Elizabeth’s love for the ridiculous bubbled forth in her merry laughter, and he soon joined in her amusement.
Unloading his burden and taking her hand, he pulled her over to the couch. He had been preparing his gift for some time now. Darcy knew she would love it, but now that the moment had arrived to present it to her, nerves overtook him.
Wiping his sweating palms on his breeches, he pulled out the leather diary he had been writing in frant
ically every night since they had arrived at Pemberley. “What I never sought to share with others, I wish to share with you. I had not realized how many poems and sonnets I have written until I undertook the task of copying them here for your enjoyment, but as you can see, the pages are nearly full.” He handed the book to her.
“You made me a book of poetry? Of your poetry? All of them?” Elizabeth gasped, pressing the book to her breast and caressing the cover as tenderly as a mother held her firstborn.
“Some of them are atrocious,” he said.
“They are perfect,” she said, daring him with her firm tone to argue.
“You have not read them yet.”
“My love, you know how I dearly love to laugh. Of what use are our failures and foibles if we cannot laugh at them? I shall treasure every poem in this book, knowing that it came from you. No other token could please me more.”
Darcy beamed at his wife. Elizabeth would never be swayed by precious gems so long as he had his pen, and he would write her every day just to show her how precious she was to him. He would never leave her room to doubt the ardor of his love.
She opened the book and read the inscription: For my darling Elizabeth, with whom I hope to enjoy many more poetry lessons.
Laughing and shaking her head, she said, “How presumptuous you must have thought me, teaching poetry to you!”
“I thought you were charming … even though you were wrong.”
She pressed her fingers against her cheeks. “How embarrassing to realize that my favorite poem, the one I believed was about me, was penned in honor of your dear horse. Is it painful for you to talk of her?”
Curiosity arched her eyebrows and sparkled in her fine eyes. Darcy could not deny her.
“She was as I described her in the poem — a chestnut with a lively temperament.”
“I should say so! You titled it Impertinent Minx. Was that her name?”