Elizabeth and Darcy- Ardently Yours

by Evangeline Wright

  “Mr. Wickham?” Was he the tack in Mr. Darcy’s shoe that occasioned such an abrupt transformation of demeanor? The rancor between the two must go even deeper than Mr. Wickham had implied. “I cannot deny he possesses certain qualities which typically attract young ladies. He is a great favorite already with my two youngest sisters.”

  “He is not the sort of man I would permit my own sister to keep company with, I assure you.” He cast her a stern look of rebuke. “Mr. Wickham is blessed with such happy manners as may ensure his making friends. Whether he is capable of keeping them is another matter.”

  “He seems to have lost your friendship.” Mr. Darcy’s silence affirmed her supposition, but could not satisfy her curiosity. “I remember hearing you say once, Mr. Darcy, that your resentment once created is unappeasable. You are very cautious, then, as to its being created?”

  “I am.”

  Obviously, Mr. Darcy intended to offer no details on the subject. Much as Elizabeth desired to hear his version of events, she was forced to admit that his discretion and gravity compared favorably to Mr. Wickham’s own behavior and bore credible witness to Mr. Darcy having the right of the matter. She resolved to let the topic rest, but found herself overruled.

  “Why do you ask these questions?”

  “I am merely attempting to sketch your character.”

  “And what is your success?”

  “Surely, Mr. Darcy, a gentleman such as yourself has sat for many portraits. You must know that a constantly shifting subject results in a poor likeness. I would get on much better, sir, if you would simply be at ease.”

  The dance ended, and they faced each other for some moments before acknowledging the same demands of courtesy that occupied other couples.

  “I assure you, Miss Bennet, I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours.” He escorted her from the floor, bowed briefly, and was gone.

  Elizabeth’s disappointment only deepened as the evening wore on, and the raucous displays of her family added mortification to her melancholy. At dinner, her mother insisted on bragging loudly to Lady Lucas, and everyone else within twenty paces, of Mr. Bingley’s imminent proposal. Mary’s dissonant display at the pianoforte was concluded only by her own father’s impolitic dismissal. Kitty and Lydia capered about the hall with high spirits and higher voices. And, of course, the irrepressible Mr. Collins would expound on any topic at the slightest provocation. This combined cacophony of the Longbourn party only increased with intake of food and punch, and Mr. Darcy was witness to it all.

  Elizabeth took little pleasure in the remainder of the evening. Mr. Collins attached himself to her presence, and although he could not persuade her to dance with him again, he did succeed in preventing her from dancing with anyone else.

  Of Mr. Darcy, she saw little. On one occasion, she imagined she perceived his powerful stare on her, but caught only a fleeting glimpse of his figure as he quit the room. Elizabeth did not know whether to account his withdrawal of friendship to the presence of Mr. Wickham, the appalling behavior of her relations, or her own incivility, but in any case she could not blame him. An overwhelming sense of regret left little room within her for resentment.

  Her humiliation was to stretch the full length of the evening, for Mrs. Bennet contrived a delay in the arrival of their carriages such that their party would be last to depart. When Mr. Collins at last left her side to see about his own curricle, Elizabeth drew her mother into a doorway apart from the group, hoping to minimize any parting effrontery.

  “Oh, Lizzy! It is a happy thing for a mother, indeed, to see two of her daughters so soon to be married!” Mrs. Bennet lolled against the doorjamb, fanning herself languidly.

  “Mama! I cannot imagine what you mean.” Elizabeth lowered her voice, hoping in vain her mother might follow her example.

  “Do not play the fool with me, Lizzy. Everyone knows that Jane has Mr. Bingley all but secured, and I have good reason to believe that you too may expect a proposal soon!”

  Elizabeth had suspected that this was Mr. Collins’ motivation. How else to explain his dogged attachment throughout the evening? The confirmation of her suspicion, however, was the final indignity in an evening of trials.

  “Mama, I beg you to curtail your celebration. If Jane should become engaged to Mr. Bingley, it would give us all cause to rejoice, but the event is by no means assured. For my own part, should the gentleman to whom you refer make an offer to me, I have not the slightest intention of accepting him.”

  “Of course you shall! Think of your sisters! In accepting his proposal, you will preserve their home and save us all from destitution.”

  “Yes, but at what price? My sisters’ respect, and my own happiness? Believe me, Mama, when I say to you that I do not and could not love him, and I most certainly will never marry him.”

  “Lizzy, do not be absurd! To be sure, he is not so charming or handsome as Mr. Wickham, but do not be misled by foolish fancies, child. Longbourn’s entail cannot be charmed away, any more than fine looks will fill your table.”

  Elizabeth sighed in resignation. It was useless to argue with her mother further, if she supposed Mr. Wickham to be the source of her reluctance.

  From his position in the now-darkened drawing room, Darcy watched Elizabeth and her mother in silhouette. He could not make out Elizabeth’s side of the conversation, as she spoke in hushed tones, but Mrs. Bennet’s statements echoed through the empty room.

  Two daughters soon to be married! The London ton was rife with scheming mothers, but this woman from Hertfordshire bested them all. Darcy berated himself for ignoring all the obvious signs. From their first introduction at that miserable assembly, he and Bingley had been marked men. On early acquaintance, the eldest Bennet sisters had appeared the exception to their family’s ill breeding—Miss Bennet, sweetly serene; Miss Elizabeth, delightfully arch. Neither displayed the coy, fawning manner typically assumed by fortune-hunters.

  After this evening, however, Darcy could no longer overlook their suspect motivations. Watching Miss Elizabeth smiling and laughing in open admiration of another—that wastrel Wickham, no less!—he realized how he had misjudged her behavior. Her dry witticisms, which he had once presumed an invitation to friendship, had been truly designed to rebuff. And though Bingley’s affection for Miss Bennet was plainly writ upon his face, the lady’s own countenance remained placid and untouched. Now this overheard conversation sealed the painful, yet inescapable conclusion –Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth followed not their own hearts, but the conniving aspirations of their mother and the demands of their impoverished situation.

  Darcy would take no pleasure in recounting this conversation to Bingley, but relate it he must. They would do well to quit Hertfordshire immediately and leave behind all mention of the name Bennet.

  Chapter Five

  Rosings Park, four months later

  “Cousin Eliza! Maria! My dear Charlotte, make haste! Lady Catherine awaits us at Rosings!” Mr. Collins wiped his brow in agitation.

  Elizabeth had not passed a single waking hour in Kent that she did not bless her father. How grateful she was that the typically reclusive and indifferent Mr. Bennet had seen fit one November morning to leave the sanctuary of his study, brave the voluble wrath of her mother, and refuse to insist that she marry Mr. Collins! Mrs. Bennet’s grief over this development was increased some days later, when Charlotte Lucas accepted the same offer Elizabeth had refused.

  She had wondered at Charlotte’s determination to marry such a ridiculous man and was initially reluctant to accept her invitation to visit Hunsford that spring. Upon her arrival in Kent, however, Elizabeth saw how a lifetime as Sir William Lucas’ daughter had prepared her friend well for the role of Mrs. Collins. She appeared happily settled in their parsonage, which, while not grand, offered rooms enough for husband and wife to comfortably pursue separate occupations. Charlotte seemed content, and for this Elizabeth was grateful.

  If the name of Mr. Collins’ esteemed patrones
s tripped off his lips with frequency in Hertfordshire, in Kent the rector seemed to think of little else than Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Mr. and Mrs. Collins and their guests were invited regularly to Rosings, and either Lady Catherine or her daughter, Miss Anne de Bourgh, called at Hunsford daily.

  Elizabeth’s own impressions of Lady Catherine had undergone a swift progression from awe to amusement to tedium. Her ladyship’s intimate inquiries into every aspect of Charlotte’s housekeeping, her cottagers’ affairs, and even Elizabeth’s level of accomplishment quickly lost their diverting novelty, as did Mr. Collins’ toadying deference to her every whim.

  On this particular evening, however, Elizabeth did not resist the call to Rosings, for an addition to their small society was promised. Her ladyship’s nephews were known to have arrived for their annual Easter visit—and who should be among them, but Mr. Darcy!

  Elizabeth looked forward to the evening with great anticipation. Little had occurred in her fortnight at Hunsford that could be categorized as remotely stimulating, but her spirits were roused at the prospect of renewing Mr. Darcy’s acquaintance. She knew that the meeting might prove awkward. She had not met with the gentleman in four months’ time—since the evening of the Netherfield Ball—and they had not parted in the spirit of amiability she would have wished.

  All Meryton had been shocked when Mr. Bingley and his party left Netherfield so abruptly. The reason cited by Miss Bingley in her parting letter, namely Mr. Darcy’s wish to see his sister, was easily understood. He had been parted from her for long weeks of her convalescence, and certainly he must be ill himself with concern. Much as Elizabeth lamented his hasty departure, she could not fault it. Her only regret was having no opportunity to redeem her family’s unseemly behavior at the ball. In retrospect, she hoped that Mr. Darcy’s preoccupation with his sister’s well-being might have been the source of his distant manner that evening, but she could not convince herself it was so.

  Shortly after Christmas, Jane had gone to London to stay with their Aunt and Uncle Gardiner, and it was hoped she might resume her acquaintance with Mr. Bingley while in town. But if concern for Miss Darcy excused the party’s rapid removal from Hertfordshire, it could not explain Miss Bingley’s cold reception of Jane when she called at the Bingley residence, or the lady’s obvious wish to sever all connection between them. Jane wondered at Miss Bingley’s conduct, but Elizabeth saw clearly the heart of the matter. Miss Bingley knew her brother to be in love with Jane and did not approve of his choice. Her interference was cruel and unjust, but there was nothing more Jane could do to alert Mr. Bingley to her presence in town.

  As they approached the grand façade of Rosings, Elizabeth felt a pang of sorrow for her sister. Jane’s letters always presented a cheerful face, but she knew how her sister must suffer. Her attachment to Mr. Bingley had not been slight or easily forgotten. Elizabeth’s own thoughts had traveled to Mr. Darcy more often than she cared to admit, and this on the basis of erstwhile friendship alone. How much greater was Jane’s preoccupation, with the force of love to multiply her distress?

  Upon their introduction to the drawing room, Elizabeth’s eyes sought out Mr. Darcy immediately, only to discover him fixing her with his own steady gaze. Elizabeth curtsied to Mr. Darcy’s stiff bow, anxious to gauge whether his stern disapproval at their last meeting had softened or solidified with the passage of time. She attempted a smile, but he looked away without acknowledging the gesture. It seemed she had her answer. Humbled, Elizabeth quickly transferred her attention to his cousin. Colonel Fitzwilliam looked a few years older than Mr. Darcy, and though not nearly so handsome, he fortunately displayed a more congenial manner.

  Lady Catherine announced her desire for cards, and two tables were set up. Her ladyship enjoined Mr. and Mrs. Collins to take places at her table, an honor which Mr. Collins could never decline. Elizabeth suspected that his sterling company had less to do with this condescension than the fact that Mr. Collins nearly always lost.

  Mr. Darcy moved to make up the fourth, but Lady Catherine would have her other nephew instead. She seemed particularly anxious that Mr. Darcy should be partnered with her daughter, and Elizabeth and Maria Lucas were to complete the foursome.

  At the other table Mr. Collins kept up a steady flow of congratulatory remarks and apologized profusely for his every stroke of luck, but theirs was the stupidest assembly of card players ever seen. Barely a word was spoken between the four that did not concern the game at hand. Miss de Bourgh was interrupted often by her companion, Mrs. Jenkinson, who could not last five minutes without inquiring as to her lady’s comfort, with regard to the temperature of the room or her desire for tea or refreshment. Maria was clearly too awed by her company to venture any sort of remark. Mr. Darcy’s taciturn bent limited his contribution to severe glances in Elizabeth’s direction, and to these she could imagine no civil reply.

  At length, she decided they must have some conversation, if only to drown out the effusions of her cousin.

  “I hope your sister is well, Mr. Darcy.”

  “Thank you, she is.”

  “We were concerned when you quitted Netherfield so suddenly last November. We feared some turn for the worse in her condition.”

  “I am sorry to have occasioned you any concern in that regard. My sister is now well.”

  “My own sister, Jane, has been in London these past three months. Have you never happened to see her there?” She watched his reaction carefully, to see if he would betray any knowledge of what had passed between Jane and Miss Bingley. He appeared only mildly surprised at her question, however.

  “No, I have not had that pleasure.”

  “Miss Bennet!” Lady Catherine called from the next table. For a lady of advanced age, her faculty of hearing remained remarkably sharp. “Am I to understand that your eldest sister is also from home?”

  “Yes, madam. She has gone to stay with my aunt and uncle in London.”

  “How singular! I am astonished that your mother can spare you both at once, and for such a long duration.”

  “I assure you, Lady Catherine, my mother can spare us readily. She encourages our travels.”

  “Undoubtedly,” Mr. Darcy said, his low voice edged with sarcasm.

  Offended by his discernible scorn, Elizabeth returned her attention to her cards. She found herself once again replaying the events of the Netherfield Ball in her mind, trying to understand where his warm welcome had transformed into cool dismissal. The presence of Mr. Wickham had clearly set him on edge, but Mr. Wickham was not here this evening. If worry for his sister had played any part, by his own admission it was no longer a concern. No, Elizabeth reasoned, the origin of his persistent disapprobation must lie in the appalling behavior of her family. She recalled Kitty and Lydia’s antics, her mother’s crowing over Mr. Bingley, Mary’s woeful exhibition, and worst, her own incivility. The only likely conclusion was that he had found the impropriety so offensive that simply sitting to cards with her now seemed an odious trial.”

  Elizabeth knew Mr. Darcy to possess all the pride that properly accompanied his position and wealth, but she had not thought it so tainted with arrogance and conceit. She recalled his obvious affection for his sister, his discreet handling of the poacher at Netherfield, his generosity in lending her his books. How to reconcile these observations, and the regard in which he was so uniformly held by all of his close acquaintance, with his clear intent to snub any friendly overture?

  The gentleman was an enigma to her, and Elizabeth should have liked to abandon all attempts to puzzle him out. But if he pervaded her thoughts from the safe distance of London, how could she close her mind to his influence when seated at his elbow? If she could somehow ignore the sight of his long, sculpted fingers resting on the table bare inches from her own, she could not forget the sensation of their strong grasp around hers as they danced, any more than she could prevent the deep timbre of his voice from interrupting her thoughts.

  “I thought you preferred reading to c
ards, Miss Bennet. Yet this evening you seem to make an exception.” He spoke in a low voice, so as to limit the conversation to their small circle. His tone was not intimate, however, but accusatory. Though she found him increasingly perplexing, Mr. Darcy seemed confident in his ill opinion of her. It wounded her pride to be judged so meanly, even if she must allow him some justification for holding her in low esteem.

  “I take pleasure in a great many things, Mr. Darcy, reading and cards among them, as well as several other amusements which, given our limited acquaintance, you may not have had the opportunity to observe. I might just as easily conclude that you divide your time equally between writing letters and casting disapproving glares—but I would not presume my knowledge of your character to be so complete.”

  “How generous of you. But certainly, your opportunities to sketch my character have not been as limited as you suggest.”

  “Perhaps not,” Elizabeth allowed as she laid a high card and claimed her victory. “I do recall learning from Mrs. Hurst that you are rather poor at whist.”

  Lady Catherine, obviously annoyed by her inability to make out the conversation, declared an end to card-playing for the evening. Mr. Darcy retreated to a corner of the drawing room, and Elizabeth was engaged in conversation by the very amiable Colonel Fitzwilliam. What a relief it was to talk and laugh openly with this pleasant gentleman, even under the cold scrutiny of his cousin.

  Colonel Fitzwilliam asked Elizabeth to play for him at the pianoforte, offering to select the music and turn pages for her, and she was of no mind to refuse. Her performance was by no means masterful, but what it lacked in technique was more than compensated by the lively spirit with which she played, and Colonel Fitzwilliam expressed his appreciation warmly. He selected another piece, and as her fingers picked out the opening strains, Mr. Darcy rose from his chair and approached the pianoforte with deliberation.

  “Do you mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming in all this state to hear me play? You are welcome, sir, for now I may account my every mistake to your intimidating presence and need not own to my deficiency of practice.”