"I know someone else who grew up at Pemberley," she said.
"Oh?" replied the colonel, mildly interested.
"His name is George Wickham."
She watched in amazement as the Colonel's face darkened and his jaw clenched.
"And where did you meet him?" he said, all humour having left his voice.
"He joined the militia that is currently stationed at Meryton in Hertfordshire."
"Really?" said the colonel, unconsciously grinding his teeth.
"He said he grew up with Mr Darcy, that they played and were tutored together as children."
"That is true: George Wickham was my uncle's godson. His father was Pemberley's steward until his death. He predeceased my uncle by three years. Uncle George was excessively fond of George Wickham, even to the extent that he treated him like a second son."
"That was very generous of him."
"Too generous. I never liked George. He reminds me of my brother: a golden boy. George always seemed to say and do exactly the right thing to please Uncle George; but he has a black heart, and has betrayed his godfather's trust most grievously."
Coming from the amiable colonel, these were harsh words indeed.
"Mr Wickham claimed that Mr Darcy had denied him a living that he had been promised and banished him from Pemberley."
"What?!" barked the Colonel. "That grub! The living would have been given to him, had he wanted it; but he did not! Instead, he asked for cash in lieu so that he could study the law. Against my advice, Darcy gave him a lump sum of £3000, and George ran through it like water runs through your hands."
"Such a sum!" gasped Elizabeth. "What could he do with the half of it?"
"Gambling for one thing!" spat the colonel.
"Oh!" said Elizabeth. She would not have guessed it. Lieutenant Wickham had never sat down at the card tables at social functions, always devoting himself to the entertainment of the ladies.
"And what of his claim of banishment after your uncle's death?" she asked.
"Rubbish!" said the colonel. "He was sent to Harrow. Uncle George had specified he should have a gentleman's education and he got it, but my father didn't like him being tutored with Darcy as if he were family."
Well, that seemed to blow Mr Wickham's story out of the water, thought Elizabeth.
"I beg your pardon for bringing up an unpleasant subject, Colonel," said Elizabeth, "but Mr Wickham has been quite vocal in his criticism of Mr Darcy in Hertfordshire. My friend Charlotte disbelieved his claims and distrusted his manner, and it looks like I should have given her opinion more credence."
"Please forgive me also, Miss Bennet, for getting so irate, but that fellow really makes my blood boil. There is more to it than I can discuss, but George Wickham is a blackguard."
"I must admit that I did try to question Mr Darcy about the validity of Mr Wickham's claims, but he refused to talk of it."
"I am afraid he has been deeply affected by it all. They were brought up like brothers after Mr Wickham's death, and he feels George Wickham's betrayal most deeply. Mind you, even as a child, I believe George Wickham acted with perfidy. He always shifted the blame for any little thing onto Darcy–from spilling his tea, to breaking a window. Darcy was two years younger than George and I, and he just accepted it as the status quo when his father was alive; but I was definitely glad to see Wickham sent off to Harrow–else I would have been in trouble for fighting with him.
They had by now reached the gates of the Parsonage, and the colonel, keen to change the subject, reached down to pick a dandelion that had gone to seed.
"What shall we wish for Miss Bennet?" he asked playfully. Then, before she could answer, he closed his eyes and blew.
"Mr Collins will have your skin for that!" she replied. "All those baby dandelions scattered over his manicured lawn!"
They both laughed.
Upon opening the front door, Elizabeth caught Charlotte stuffing an apron into a cupboard. Her colour was heightened.
They took tea with the colonel, whereupon he extended his aunt's invitation for dinner to Mrs Collins, then made his bow and was off.
"Lizzy, thank God you've come back!" said Charlotte as the door clicked shut. "I was at my wits end when you walked in. I pulled the carpet out of the dining parlour to beat it, but we are not strong enough to lay it over the clothesline. Can you help?"
'We' turned out to be Charlotte, Mariah and the maid. Following Charlotte outside, Lizzy donned the apron Charlotte handed her, and they picked up the rug. Mariah turned out to be completely useless, having obviously never lifted a heavy object in her life. However, after much huffing, they managed to get the rug over the line, and the maid set about beating it. As she was only a novice at rug beating, each whack only extracted a small puff of dust.
"Here," said Charlotte, pulling her frilly cap down to cover as much of her hair as possible and requesting the rug beater. "Let me try."
She swung the beater with much more force, and large clouds of dust billowed from the rug. But not being used to such exercise, after ten strokes she needed to regain her breath.
Lizzy stepped into the breech. "May I?"
After tying her lace fichu about her hair, she laid into the rug with vigour; and after several dozen strokes, they all agreed there was not much more dust to be had from it.
Carrying the rug back inside, they arranged the furniture on top of it, then sat down, exhausted, upon the rug and laughed at their adventure.
After lunch, the ladies retired to their rooms to recruit their strength for the evening at Rosings.
Lizzy had intended to sleep, but although her body was tired, thoughts of her conversation with the colonel came crowding in.
She tried to think of all her interactions with Mr Darcy in the light of his tragic childhood. Clearly he had been close to his mother. How strange to have grown up in a house where the only adults were servants–or so it seemed from the colonel's story. His aunt and uncle were only nine miles away. Why had they not just taken him in until he was older? He was the heir, and she supposed his own house might have had the comfort of familiarity… but how lonely he must have been!
She tried to imagine life without her parents and sisters and felt very cold inside. She supposed, in an equivalent situation, she would have gone to live with her Aunt Gardiner or her Aunt Philips. Mr Collins would have already inherited Longbourn…
These maudlin thoughts, along with her physical exhaustion, laid her low; and when Charlotte came to help her dress, she expressed a wish to be excused from dinner. Elizabeth did not think she was up to another evening of Lady Catherine in her current mood.
After the Collins and Mariah had walked out, she crept down to the quiet of Charlotte's parlour to write a letter to Jane. The maid, not being needed for the evening meal, had already gone home to the village.
Around an hour later, she was puzzled when she heard the bell and completely astonished when Mr Darcy walked in, holding a single coral rose, which he offered to her.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, "such a beautiful colour! I have never seen one like it."
"Miss Bennet," he said, "there is something I must tell you."
Upon noting the strange tension in his voice, she looked up at him. His eyes seemed to burn.
"In vain, I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you."
Before she knew what had happened, she was in his arms. She froze as he leaned down to kiss her tenderly.
Darcy was gratified to feel Elizabeth almost melt in his embrace. As he released her lips briefly to take a breath, she sighed into his mouth. Overcome with lust at this pleasing reaction, he pulled her tightly to him and began to kiss her most passionately. He felt her briefly struggle; but he held her fast, and teasing her lip with his tongue, asked to be let inside. Finally, her mouth opened a fraction, and she joined him in the kiss, as her carnality stirred within her.
He felt a surge of
joy…, of triumph. Releasing her lips and nuzzling her ear, he whispered, "Your lips are like cherries, and taste as sweet."
Then resting his forehead against her own, he said: "Your family's situation is not good: should you father be struck down by some illness, you would be in dire straits; and I cannot bear the thought of it. I promise to look after your mother and sisters whenever that should occur, if you will but give me your love now."
He ran his hand along her arm from her shoulder to her elbow before declaring, "You inhabit my dreams. I cannot live without you. Please relieve my suffering and consent to be my mistress."
Elizabeth sat down promptly, as if winded, and burst out crying.
Darcy stepped back, aghast and confused. Did women really cry of happiness, or was she truly upset? Perhaps mentioning her father's likely demise had overset her?
Lizzy tried to cap her overflowing emotions. Had she misunderstood him? Surely he was asking her to be Mistress of Pemberley, not his mistress? Surely she must have misconstrued what he had said? No gentleman would ask such a thing!
Seeing she had dried her eyes, Darcy got down on one knee. "I'll set you up in your own townhouse. You'll have boxes at the opera and the theatre, your own carriage… I will be a devoted protector. You will be the most beloved mistress in all London."
Elizabeth was now sure her worst fears were true, and her ire rose.
Standing, she confronted him.
"Sir, are you asking me to live in sin with you?" she yelled.
She cast her eyes about wildly; then seeing the carpet beater leaned against the door, she picked it up and laid into him. "You arrogant, whack, idle, whack, good-for-nothing rake!"
Darcy scrambled to his feet, ducked, and retreated to the hallway; but she followed him and continued to rain blows upon him with a vigour that bespoke her fitness.
Escaping into the evening air, he could only be glad that she was armed with a blunt instrument, else he might be bleeding from several gaping wounds.
Leaping the front gate in his haste to get away, he set off across the park.
As he ran, it started to rain and then pour, as if the fates were cooling his ardour.
Chapter 27: Aftermath
After running hell for leather for several hundred yards through Rosings Park, Darcy slowed to a lope and then a walk. There was no point in hurrying: he was wet through, and the rain pouring over his face felt right anyway, for it perfectly summed up his feelings.
His lip was swollen and stinging; perhaps it was bleeding. It was impossible to tell in the rain. Elizabeth had managed to flick his face with that bamboo fan as she had been raining blows onto his head and back. It hadn't occurred to him to strike back at her, but he was relieved he had not done so out of instinct. Darcy knew he justly deserved a good thrashing. He had never received one before in his life, but the earl had constantly dished them out to Richard.
Realising he probably looked a fright, Darcy considered the problem of getting back into the house. He had gone out via the servants’ hall, but he hesitated to go back in that way because of his wild appearance. Still, he didn't want his aunt to know he had been out, as he'd pled a migraine to be excused from dinner. In the end he took off his cravat and made a show of wiping the rain off his face with it as he walked in, looking neither left or right. Once he reached the corridor, he looked down at the material. There was no blood, so she had probably had just given him a fat lip.
Reaching his room, he slammed the door. It occurred to him to check his face, but he couldn't bear to look at himself in the mirror. She was right–he was no better than Wickham, trying to seduce a virtuous woman. He had intended to draw up a contract and ensure she was properly recompensed. In that light it had seemed generous and fair, but morally it was bereft. He had tried to seduce her with his money instead of his charm. Charm? He had none! Darcy suddenly felt deeply ashamed.
What was I thinking? There were only two righteous paths: marry her or leave her alone.
Surreptitiously watching for his cousin in the failing light, Richard saw him walking towards the manor in the rain.
Earlier, Darcy had retreated into the house when the Hunsford party appeared, asking his cousin to cover for him. Richard had noticed immediately that Miss Bennet was not among the guests from the Parsonage, but he had assumed that Darcy was just being antisocial. It was not until halfway through the soup course that he had connected the two events. He excused himself briefly between the courses to check his hunch. Sure enough, Darcy was missing from his room.
The evening had been damned flat without Miss Bennet, and Darcy's absence had made it a further trial. At least when his cousin was present, they could trade glances when Aunt Catherine said something particularly ridiculous.
After dessert Richard began his vigil, staring out the window, sipping a glass of wine as he carried on a desultory conversation with Anne while the Collinses played at cards with his aunt and Mrs Jenkinson. He mused that Mrs Jenkinson seemed to be more of a companion for his aunt and a gaoler for his cousin.
After the carriage had been called for, Richard had said his goodbyes to the Hunsford party and excused himself to his aunt, ostensibly to check on Darcy. Arriving at his cousin's bedchamber door, he found it locked and banged on it.
"Darce? Are you all right?"
"Go away, Fitz," came a small voice.
"Open the door, Wills," he yelled.
"I am fine. Go away!" Darcy roared back.
There was a pause; then with two great shudders the door gave way.
"Fitz, what the hell are you doing!" exclaimed Darcy. "You've broken Aunt Catherine's door!"
"Bugger Aunt Catherine's door! What is the matter?"
"Please, Fitz, leave me alone. I need to be alone."
"Darcy, are you going to tell me what's wrong, or do I have to shake it out of you?"
"I have done something terrible, Fitz."
"You have murdered Mr Collins?" said Richard, attempting leavening humour.
Darcy ignored this. "Now my door is broken."
"Oh! so now it's your door."
"How are you going to explain that to Aunt Catherine?" Darcy asked petulantly.
"I don't intend to explain it at all. Tell her I was drunk. Better still, tell her you were drunk. Then she might give up this ridiculous notion of your marrying Anne."
"Nothing short of my being committed to Bedlam will discourage her from that. No, that would play right into her hands: she'd get me up the aisle and have power of attorney through Anne."
"But we digress…" returned the colonel doggedly as he moved closer to Darcy, who was still sitting in his wet clothes, staring into the fire. "You went to visit Miss Bennet…"
There was a silence, then in a small voice Darcy replied, "I asked her to be my mistress…"
"What?!" yelped Richard. "What did she say?"
"She hit me with something, several times."
"Darce, I'm not surprised. I never would have guessed it of you. I knew you liked her, but dammit, she's a gentleman's daughter, not a bit of muslin."
Darcy became irate. "Oh, take the moral high ground! Did you not recently say in this very house that she would likely end up someone's mistress?"
Upon recalling their earlier conversation in the library, it was Richard's turn to be abashed. "Must a man be held to every stupid word he utters? That was before I knew her! She is a gem, man!"
"I know, Fitz. I know," Darcy said forlornly. "It's just… I love her, but I cannot marry her."
"Why not?"
"Richard, you said yourself that you wouldn't marry her, that she wasn't eligible…"
"Darce, I just don't feel I could offer a lady like that a respectable living. Once this war is over, I'll be a half-pay officer living in a cottage by the sea, unless one of my aunts decides to leave me something. But you, you've got money to burn! So what if she's got next to no dowry!"
"It's not just the dowry. She has no connections. You know your father and Aunt Catherine
will object."
"And what do you care for connections? Are you planning a career in parliament? You're independently wealthy. You don't have to kowtow to anyone!"
There was a silence.
"I've just spent several months steering Bingley away from her sister!"
"I don't understand why you put your oar in there. He's just as free to pick and choose as you are. If she's as lovely as Miss Elizabeth, I'd call him a lucky man!"
"But if he marries her, it will significantly lower his sister's chance of an eligible match! Indeed, I would be jeopardising Georgiana's chances by offering for Miss Elizabeth."
"Ah, do I detect the influence of that social climber Caroline Bingley? Sure, she might be able to claw her way higher if her brother made a brilliant match, but he strikes me as the sort who'd rather marry for love. As for Georgiana, rubbish! We'll be swatting them away. "
"So what should I do?"
"If you love her, try to fix it!" Richard said as he retreated to the entrance.
After trying unsuccessfully to bash the door back into place, he gave up, wrenched it off its hinges and propped it against the wall.
"I'll get someone to see to the door in the morning," he mumbled apologetically.
Turning, he cast a final glance at Darcy, "And Wills…"
"Yes?"
"Get out of those wet clothes."
After Richard left, Darcy pulled off his sodden garments. He had given his valet the night off, hoping he would be able to stay at the Parsonage 'til late. Knowing Finn was probably playing cards with his groom, Darcy decided not to disturb him. He had a hell of a time getting his wet boots off. They were probably ruined. He set the wet clothes over the back of a chair and pulled on a nightshirt.
Then he sat down to write her a letter.
After Darcy had left the Parsonage, Lizzy had retreated to her room to cry. So Charlotte was right: he did like her, but not in an appropriate way. Not handsome enough to tempt him! Well, not to marriage anyway! Elizabeth had another good bawl; then calming, she realised she might need to put things in order before Charlotte returned.
I Met Mr Darcy Via Luton Page 14