By Reason, by Reflection, by Everything

by P. O. Dixon

  Now that I am quite certain you have forgiven my lapse, for you are far too kind to do otherwise, allow me to tell you how things have unfolded thus far. Oh, Charlotte, Pemberley in all its natural splendor is such a magnificent sight to behold. I do not know that I have seen another estate that compares.

  As for the particulars of our purpose in traveling here, matters that you know all too well to warrant any manner of repetition, I have news of a rather mixed nature to share. Indeed, Mr. Darcy and his son are fine upstanding gentlemen who suffer none of the pretenses one often associates with such great men. Indeed, they are most pleasant. Should events unfold as my father and his friend schemed all those years ago, I would say that Jane has no cause at all to repine.

  For my part, I must confess to suffering a measure of skepticism.

  Why would I not be entirely optimistic about the prospect, you may be wondering? Dare I say that I have a vague inclination that the odds, while not entirely against such a pleasing prospect, seem to point that way. I shall say no more than what I have said for now, hoping that I merely want more time to form an opinion based more on fact than intuition.

  I will say that my sister is not without her fair share of admiration. Indeed, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy is most attentive. I suspect he is far too gentlemanly to behave in any other way toward one of his father’s guests. However, a great measure of Jane’s admiration comes from another source. You see, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy has a friend—a handsome young man whose family is from the North. His name is Mr. Charles Bingley. Amiable, agreeable and quite charming, he is indeed everything a young man ought to be. Again, without finding fault in Mr. Darcy, I can honestly say that if he behaved toward my sister half as ardently as his friend does, I would have no doubt of a happy outcome for Jane.

  Alas, what would a summer party in the country be without its fair share of colorful characters? Indeed. There are several other very interesting members of our party that I dare say you would find quite amusing. The grandest of them all is Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy’s aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Oh, Charlotte, I dare say you have never met anyone quite like her. Although knowing you so well as I do, I am quite certain you would bear her with a great deal more tolerance and grace than I, at present, find myself capable of doing. It is not merely the fact that she looks on my papa, my sister and me with unmasked disdain that causes me to regard her as I do, but it is the fact that she has such strong opinions on every possible subject, and she proudly makes her opinions known to everyone she meets.

  If I am to be completely honest about my lack of tolerance for her, it would have to be because her ladyship believes her own daughter is destined to marry her nephew, and she does not tolerate dissenting opinions on that matter at all. Indeed, her daughter is Miss Anne de Bourgh.

  I implore you not to mention a word of any of this to anyone, for I am certain that were my mama made privy to such intelligence, she would not hesitate to come to Pemberley to take up the role of the determined matchmaker. That said, even I can surmise that the possibility of Lady Catherine’s daughter marrying her nephew is inconceivable. She is so tiny, so pale, so fragile that she would never suit a man such as Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy.

  Did I mention how tall he is? How handsome he is? How infinitely attractive he is?

  Elizabeth, realizing that perhaps she ought not to be writing these specific words immediately thought to ball up the paper, toss it in the waste bin, and start writing her letter anew. No—merely discarding it would never do, she considered. What if someone should find it?

  Retrieving a fresh piece of paper, Elizabeth proceeded to rewrite those parts of the letter that she intended to write again. Upon reaching the place where she earlier noticed herself waxing poetic about the handsome heir of Pemberley, she ceased writing and commenced tearing up the original missive into shreds.

  I must regulate my thoughts more carefully, else I shall never finish my letter to Charlotte, she silently considered. One look at her pen informed her it was very much in need of repair. Here, she smiled despite herself in remembrance of the lengths Miss Bingley had gone through earlier that day endeavoring to impress upon Fitzwilliam Darcy how eager she was to mend his pen.

  Being the fair maiden that she was, Elizabeth knew she should not have entertained the naughty ideas that Miss Bingley’s words incited in her busy imagination. On the other hand, thinking a thing and having intimate knowledge of a thing were two different matters altogether. Owe it to her penchant for reading those books in her father’s library that he went to great lengths to assure no one’s eyes other than his would ever see. And thus, when Fitzwilliam Darcy informed Miss Bingley that he preferred to mend his own pens, Elizabeth severely chastised herself for the thoughts his words invoked. She shook her head. She may not have been a great admirer of Miss Bingley, but Elizabeth had to admit that the lady added fodder for laughter and hilarity in a manner that might sorely have been missed were she not always swarming around the gentleman.

  What a game of cat and mouse those two perform.

  Who needs charades when the two of them are in a room? Elizabeth asked herself before once again taking up the task of finishing her letter to Charlotte.

  Upon the completion of the missive, Elizabeth sealed it, blew out the candle on her writing table, and stood to prepare for bed. Her mind would not stop racing. Having made a start, she really wasn’t able to cast aside visions of Miss Bingley in eager pursuit of Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy about the grounds of Pemberley.

  She did not need to be acquainted with the gentleman long at all to know without a shadow of a doubt that Miss Bingley was the last woman in the world to garner his attention. His cousin’s odds were better, of that Elizabeth was certain. And silently reaffirming her belief of the unlikelihood of the cousins marrying, Elizabeth’s hopes for her sister brightened.

  The absence of any serious competition for the gentleman’s affections from either of those two ladies must certainly bode well for Jane, for who else might stand in her way if neither Miss Bingley nor Miss de Bourgh stand a chance?

  “Perhaps another young lady whom no one has any reason to suspect will emerge,” she voiced softly. Now comfortably in bed, she blew out the candle on her bedside table and closed her eyes to sleep. “Another young woman indeed.” A part of her whispered, it could be me. Just as quickly, she reasoned it was the impractical side, the whimsical side that was simply imagining something that was not there—could not possibly be there. Elizabeth loved her sister, perhaps in most ways just as much as, if not more than, she loved herself.

  In such cases as this, Jane’s feelings are the only feelings that really matter.

  Chapter 12

  Small Measure

  “When at first my son informed me of his desire to meet your eldest daughter, I confess to suffering a bit of skepticism.”

  Detecting in his friend’s countenance no small measure of bewilderment, Mr. Darcy continued, “Do not mistake me, my friend. My reasoning has nothing at all to do with your lovely daughter. Quite the contrary. It has to do with what I know of my son. He has long resisted the idea of marrying.

  “I sometimes fear his heart is not so easily touched as countless young ladies will no doubt attest, but then he suddenly suffered what appears to be a change of heart, almost overnight.” Darcy rubbed his hand along his bearded chin. “It is as if he knows—”

  “Knows what, my friend?” Bennet asked, leaning forward in his chair.

  “That is a matter for another time. As grateful as I am to welcome you to Pemberley after all these years, I suppose what I really am trying to say is I would not expect too much to become of your trip.”

  “You know your son better than I do, of course. However, I would not be so quick to wager that young Darcy’s heart is not easily touched. Surely you have observed how he looks at my daughter when he supposes no one is looking.”

  “I will neither deny nor confirm your point, however I would ask you this. Of which of your two lovely daughters
do you speak?”

  “That, my friend, is indeed the question. You know me too well not to take my meaning, and thus I shall say no more. Besides, it is my turn to pose a question.”

  “Oh? What is that?”

  “This matter that you wish to speak of at a later time, might it have anything to do with your health?”

  Darcy pursed his lips. “Your powers of perception have never failed to impress me, my old friend. Indeed, it has everything to do with my health. Pray you will join me for a walk about the grounds, and I shall confide in you that which I have yet to speak of with my own flesh and blood.”

  The two gentlemen set off for a long, leisurely stroll. One talked. The other listened. When almost everything that could be said was said and compassionate sentiments and sympathetic words were all but exhausted, the latter said, “And you have told no one about this? Not even your own son?”

  The other man nodded. “Indeed, I have not.”

  “But why in heavens not—if I may be allowed to ask?”

  “I am a proud man. More than that, I am a private man. I will not have people making a fuss over me. Heaven forbid I should be subjected to anyone’s pity. I have lived life to the fullest, my friend—each and every day, on my own terms.

  “If I could change but one thing, my dearest wife, Lady Anne, would not have preceded me in death.” Here, he could not help but smile in remembrance of his lady. “How I wish the events of our respective lives had not conspired to keep us apart for so long, my friend. I believe you would have loved her. She was nothing at all like her sister, Lady Catherine—let me assure you.”

  * * *

  Bennet nodded. “By the sound of it, the two of you were very much in love,” he said, wishing he could espouse similar sentiments regarding his own situation.

  “A love match in the truest sense of the word, which is precisely why neither of us would wish for anything less for our children, I am sure.”

  “No less, indeed,” Bennet replied. “No less, indeed.”

  And this from a man who had married a woman who possessed far more beauty than intellect. The fact of the matter was for a man whose property consisted almost entirely in an estate of two thousand a year, he had done a poor job of managing his affairs—both personal as well as financial. Were he to precede his wife in death, the unfortunate lady might very well be thrown out of Longbourn into the hedgerows. An advantageous marriage by one or more of his five daughters would be just the thing to make up for his own lapses. But having witnessed first-hand the results of an alliance not based on a true meeting of the minds, one that lacked mutual admiration and respect, he honestly did not wish for such a union for either of his girls. Not even an alliance with the most eligible young man in Derbyshire.

  Chapter 13

  Sole Companion

  Miss Georgiana Darcy was set to return to Pemberley within a few days. Already Elizabeth had heard a great deal about the young lady, for no one boasted more of the young woman’s accomplishments than Miss Bingley. The young lady’s eager commendations echoed in Elizabeth mind: “I never met with anybody who delighted me so much. Such a countenance, such manners! And so extremely accomplished for her age! Her performance on the pianoforte is exquisite.”

  With such accomplishments as all these and not yet sixteen, Elizabeth could hardly wait to meet young Miss Darcy.

  On the other hand, if the two of them are so intimate as Miss Bingley suggests, I wonder how Miss Darcy will react to our being here, Elizabeth silently reflected. Despite the difference in the ages of the Darcy siblings, Elizabeth surmised based upon her earlier conversation with Mr. Darcy regarding his sister that he must surely hold her in great esteem. Despite having never seen the two of them together, Elizabeth surmised he would do everything in his power to see to his sister’s happiness.

  Closing her book, Elizabeth shook her head. Must my every thought lead me back to Fitzwilliam Darcy? She set her book aside and stood. Smoothing her dress, she said aloud, “I think I shall seek out my sister. She and I do not spend nearly so much time together as we ought. She is, after all, the reason I am here.”

  A casual glance out the window, put an end to that particular scheme of spending a few hours or so before dinner with her sister, for she espied Jane and Mr. Bingley sitting in the garden, no doubt engaged in pleasant repartee, were Elizabeth to judge by Bingley’s animated manner. Not quite knowing what to make of the gentleman’s eager attention toward her sister, she began to wonder if the young man was even aware of the reason for the Bennets’ presence at Pemberley.

  Unless, I am mistaken, Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy are close friends. Surely the latter would have spoken to his friend about his own intentions toward my sister.

  Or lack thereof, another part of her whispered. Before she could chastise herself for doubting Mr. Darcy’s intentions, the gentleman appeared just ahead on the path. Although, not alone, for he was heading in Jane and Bingley’s direction with Miss Bingley attached to his arm.

  The looming spectacle of it all was too much for Elizabeth to ignore, and she staked out a spot by the window to watch the unfolding events. What a relief it was to see Mr. Darcy free himself from his tenacious walking companion and attend Jane. What a pleasure it was to espy Miss Bingley’s unmitigated dismay. Elizabeth might have suffered an occasional doubt from time to time about the gentleman’s affections for her sister, but she was utterly and completely satisfied that he had absolutely no intentions toward Miss Bingley. Watching the lady pretend otherwise proved quite entertaining indeed.

  As entertaining was it as watching the four of them, Elizabeth’s diversion was soon ended. Miss Caroline, no doubt in her eagerness to get Jane as far away from Mr. Darcy as she could, reached for Jane’s arm and not so subtly coaxed her away from the gentlemen, who then set off in the direction of the stables. It seemed horseback riding was the order of the day for the men and a leisurely stroll for the ladies.

  Not content to see her sister spend any time alone with the pernicious Miss Bingley, Elizabeth surrendered her spot by the window. If I am quick about it, I will reach Jane and her cunning companion before they get very far.

  Eagerly, Elizabeth headed down the grand staircase with the intention of joining Jane and Miss Bingley. In her haste, she nearly collided with none other than Fitzwilliam Darcy. Once again, she found herself in his arms. Her heart slammed against her chest. Her embarrassment almost complete, she uttered, “Mr. Darcy!”

  His hands resting on either of her arms, he said, “Miss Elizabeth.” As if remembering himself, he dropped his hands to his sides and then clasped them behind his back.

  “Sir, I thought you were going riding with your friend Mr. Bingley,” she said without thinking of what such a revelation foretold.

  He shook his head slightly. “No. Why would you think that, Miss Elizabeth?”

  “I—I—” What was she going to say? She did not dare confess that she had been spying on him mere moments ago.

  Even if he suspected the truth of the matter, he seemed much too much of a gentleman to tell her. Instead, he asked, “Where are you going?” He cleared his throat. “Pardon, what I meant to say is you appeared to be in a great hurry.”

  “Indeed. I was about to go out for a walk about the park before it is time to dress for dinner.”

  “I was given to believe you preferred early morning rambles,” he said.

  “I am very fond of walking regardless of the hour, sir.”

  “It would appear so. Indeed, it is a fondness that you and I share. I would be more than happy to accompany you.”

  She held up her hand. “No!”

  The look that spread across his handsome countenance informed her of his disappointment. It could not be helped. The last thing she needed was to spend time alone with him. It was not as though she did not spend most of her time thinking of him, recounting his every word, his every gesture, his every look. On the other hand, the disappointed look on his face was something she did not particul
arly like seeing.

  “Pray, forgive me. I suppose what I meant to say is you are very kind. However, you seemed to be in a hurry as well. I am afraid I have detained you for far too long.” With that said, she curtsied. “I must be on my way.” Before he could protest, Elizabeth was well on her way—her sole companion, a deep exhale.

  Later that evening, when the ladies removed themselves to the drawing room after dinner, Elizabeth was once again amazed by the outpouring of affection from the Bingley sisters toward Jane. Indeed, she had never seen them so agreeable. Their powers of conversation were considerable, and their wit flowed long as they described past entertainments with accuracy, related amusing stories with humor, and laughed at the expense of sundry acquaintances who were known only to themselves with heightened spirits.

  However, when all the gentlemen, save Mr. Bennet and the elder Mr. Darcy, entered the room, Jane was no longer the younger sister’s first object. Fitzwilliam Darcy immediately claimed that honor, and she went directly to him before he had advanced very far. He addressed Miss Bingley in a manner which must surely please any young woman, and a polite conversation ensued.

  Mr. Hurst made his way directly to the nearest sofa and struck a comfortable pose signaling his intention to partake in an after-dinner nap. Charles Bingley, whose countenance was steeped in joyfulness, joined his elder sister, Louisa, and Jane; thereby prompting the former to occupy herself by playing with her bracelets and rings. Only occasionally did she engage with the young couple.

  Miss Anne de Bourgh and her companion, Mrs. Jenkinson, sat in a lonely corner of the room, both choosing to rely on their own company, the latter fussing over the former’s footstool.

  As for Elizabeth herself, she sat in the opposite corner with her book in hand, ostensibly for the purposes of reading when, in truth, she secretly delighted in the spectacle of it all.