Longbourn's Songbird

by Beau North

  “You may think so, but I’ve seen the way Charles looks at you. He looks at you the way my father used to look at my mother. I think he is well on his way to being very much in love with you. And I’ve seen the way you look at him. You see him for the man he is, and for that I respect you a great deal.”

  “I do…care for Mr. Bingley,” she said. “I think that he is just what a man ought to be.”

  “And can you imagine him as a shadow of himself? Can you imagine him spending his life grieving?” Jane paled. “Please don’t misunderstand me, Miss Bennet. I could never—would never—tell you what to do. All I am asking is…will you talk to Charles? Or at least think about it?”

  Jane fought back tears, wishing she had Elizabeth’s talent for never crying. Her anger had cooled and left only sadness—sadness for herself, for Charles, even for Darcy, though she wondered whether part of her would always resent him for this conversation.

  “I doubt I will think of much else, Mr. Darcy.”

  ***

  Assume a virtue if you have it not. George Wickham always found those to be words to live by. People who met him for the first time were usually left with the impression that he was friendly, honest, engaging, and sympathetic with a good sense of humor. His good looks and easy smile were his greatest assets in creating favorable impressions.

  In reality, he was a shrewd observer of the human condition. He learned from an early age how to spot a weakness in a person and exploit it to his own benefit. It was this talent that he used to the greatest advantage with the late John Darcy. Wickham always knew exactly which of his godfather’s buttons to push to get exactly what he wanted. He had no doubt that, if Will Darcy’s father were still alive, he wouldn’t be stuck in the army in a post that was out in the middle of nowhere.

  Wickham poured himself a drink and sighed, making a slow circuit around his room. And now, of all the rotten luck, Darcy was there! Without realizing what he was doing, Wickham rubbed his thumb across the bridge of his nose, which had once been smooth but now sported a noticeable bump.

  He knew now that he had seriously mismanaged things with Darcy after his father’s death. He realized he should have kept up the show. However, at the time, he couldn’t stand another minute of the man’s constant, tedious moralizing: “George, you shouldn’t drink so much.” “George, you’ll gamble yourself into the grave.” “George, you shouldn’t carry on with waitresses.” “George, this is the last time I’m posting bail for you.” Darcy had been singing the same tune since they’d first gotten hair on their chins, and Wickham had had enough.

  Of course, Darcy was probably as wearisome as ever, but it was his actions in which Wickham was interested.

  Taking another sip of his bourbon, Wickham considered Darcy’s behavior towards the fair Elizabeth Bennet. He’d seen his former friend around women before. Aside from the occasional boyhood crush, Darcy usually treated them with as much indifference as he did everyone. What made this country girl so special? Aside from Georgiana, Darcy never seemed protective of any female. As far as the girl went, Wickham couldn’t see anything special in her. She was shorter and slimmer than he liked, too freckled, too smart—too wholesome. Wickham had no interest in wholesome.

  Where Darcy was concerned, it was better not to plan. No, planning never got Wickham anywhere. He’d long accepted his fate as an agent of chaos, and the role suited him just fine. What he wanted was to be a thorn in Darcy’s paw. And if there was an advantage to be had? So much the better.

  Chapter Four

  A silently fuming Elizabeth thought that dinner at Netherfield could not possibly be worse. To her left, Mr. Hurst could talk of nothing but killing the ducks they were currently eating. Caroline was on her third glass of wine, getting progressively more belligerent, while Louisa made occasional flustered attempts to check her sister—to no avail.

  To Elizabeth’s great dismay, Mr. Darcy had chosen the seat directly across from hers, and she was forced to keep her eyes on her plate for the entire meal.

  Worst of all, Jane was unusually quiet and withdrawn. She hadn’t been herself for the past few days. She seemed set on some course of action that she refused to share with anyone. Elizabeth had her suspicions; she always had when it came to Jane’s reticence towards young men who wanted to court her. Jane had her reasons for staying unattached. Just as Charlotte had. As did Elizabeth.

  Jane’s solemn silence was only making Bingley redouble his efforts to garner a smile or a laugh from her. It was awkward for anyone paying attention.

  Elizabeth toyed with her food, wishing more than anything that she had ignored Jane’s pleas and stayed home with an imaginary headache. Her father had only told her that afternoon that Mr. Darcy had approached him with an offer to buy Longbourn and that he was inclined to accept it.

  “I know you think you want to run all this one day, June-Bug, but it’s no life for an educated young woman.”

  “But Papa!”

  “No buts, Elizabeth!” Mr. Bennet seldom raised his voice, but when he did, it was to great effect. He stood over his daughter, his expression brooking no argument. “For years now, you’ve been using Longbourn as an excuse not to have a life of your own. I don’t know what happened to make you want to hide yourself here forever, but I won’t allow it!”

  Elizabeth’s eyes hardened but stayed dry. She was not prone to tears.

  “Mr. Darcy’s offer is generous enough that we could spend the rest of our days in high cotton,” Mr. Bennet said in a more gentle tone. “We could even send Katherine and Lydia off to a private school where, by the grace of God, they might learn how to act like rational people. This could open a lot of doors for all of my girls.”

  “Very well, Father,” Elizabeth said curtly. She was crushed, outraged, and more afraid than she’d ever been. Her safety net had been cut out from under her, and as far as she was concerned, Will Darcy was the one who held the scissors.

  Now sitting across from him, she could hardly trust herself to speak. She kept her face as still as stone and answered questions with terse, monosyllables. If she weren’t so distracted by her anger, she would have been curious at the strange optimism he seemed to exude rather than his customary aloofness.

  For his part, Darcy could not have been more charmed at the vision across from him. She was as lovely as ever in a simple white blouse and floral-patterned skirt. Her chestnut curls were pulled back from her face, held in place with a bit of yellow ribbon. When he spoke, her face would pinch into a little scowl, making him smile.

  He imagined it was her hurt feelings from the dance that evoked this reaction. He had only just learned from her own father that the lady had overheard his rudeness. He fully intended to apologize for his “bumpkin” remark and had high hopes that mending this particular fence could make his time in Meryton a much more pleasant distraction than it had been thus far—perhaps smooth over the incident with Wickham. He was willing to explain that Wickham was not a man to be trusted or believed.

  Caroline noticed the ridiculous looks Darcy directed towards Eliza Bennet all evening: the way his eyes followed her lips whenever she sipped her wine and the way his gaze wandered every so often to the front of her white blouse. The drink fueled her jealousy, forcing her to remind Darcy exactly what he was staring at.

  “So, Miss Eliza,” Caroline said, slurring her words from her seat at the end of the table, completely disrupting the already uncomfortable peace. “Your mother tells me you went to college. I was surprised to hear it; you seem so happy on your little farm. I can’t imagine an educated lady being satisfied with such a choice.”

  Elizabeth bristled at Caroline’s words. She forced herself to plaster on her sweetest, most insincere smile.

  “While I am happiest when I’m at Longbourn, Caroline, I’ve often thought that a truly educated lady is wise enough to find happiness no matter where she goes.”

  Hurst stopped talking long enough to emit a surprisingly loud laugh, making them all jump.

>   Elizabeth shrugged and turned her attention back to her plate, not noticing the hint of a smile on Darcy’s face. Caroline noticed, vowing to herself that something would have to be done.

  ***

  The boards of the porch creaked under Darcy’s feet as he paced to one end and then the other, absently chewing on the end of a cigar. He was contemplating what he would say to Elizabeth. How much could he tell her about Wickham? How would he go about apologizing for the horrible remark he had made about her at the dance?

  Mr. Bennet made it clear that neither he nor his daughter appreciated his slight. “And I will be expecting you to make your apologies, Mr. Darcy,” he said earlier that day when their business was done. “I won’t accept her being treated as less than the lady she is.”

  Discomfited, Darcy hesitated at being forced to acknowledge his own bad manners. He knew he was an ass, but nobody liked admitting it out loud.

  The sound of a door closing made him stop and turn around. Elizabeth quietly stepped outside and stood looking solemnly up at him.

  “Lizzie?” The name slipped from his lips. He only ever referred to—ever thought of her—as Elizabeth. It was the first time he had ever said “Lizzie” out loud, and it gave him a little thrill.

  “How dare you.” She spoke in a low, trembling voice. He strained to hear her over the sound of the crickets singing their nightly song. When he understood what she said, his brow furrowed in confusion.

  “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “How dare you come here, insinuating yourself on this town and these people, only to get a piece of property? If that was what you wanted all along, Mr. Darcy, you should have made it known sooner. You could have spared yourself the indignity of having to stoop to our level! Oh, how you must have hated all of our quaint little garden parties and church suppers. I’m sure you and Miss Bingley had a few good laughs at our expense behind closed doors.”

  Darcy tried to give a name to the feeling that churned his insides like his own personal hurricane. He decided it was fury. Nobody, nobody had ever spoken to him this way. Not even George Wickham at his worst had been so insolent.

  “Miss Bennet.” His words came out clipped and precise the way they always did when he was angry. Lizzie was entirely forgotten. “What I came here for is my business—and now your father’s. I don’t have to explain myself to a silly, little girl!”

  “Silly…little…Who do you imagine would run Longbourn when my father is gone? It belongs to my family! You want to take what’s mine, you insult me publicly, and let’s not forget the way you’ve treated poor George Wickham!”

  “Wickham!” He spat in disbelief. What did she know about Wickham? She ignored his outburst, continuing her tirade against him.

  “Everyone here thinks you’re just some proud, old bluenose, too good to be in company, but I see through you. You’re not good. As far as I’m concerned, you’re the devil himself!”

  Darcy stood there shocked, looking at the girl who stood defiantly in front of him. He was furious at her and at himself because, even with her spiteful words, all he could see was the way her eyes sparked in her anger, the heavy way she breathed. It was too much. Without thinking, he grabbed her arms roughly and pulled her to him, so close their noses could have touched. The heat of her small body against his only fueled his rage. All his weeks of pent-up longing had come to this.

  He spoke just above a whisper, his voice shaking with anger and need.

  “You don’t know me; you don’t know anything about me! I will do for me and mine, and my offer to your father was more generous than you’ll see in this lifetime. And Wickham! However bad he says it is, it’ll never be bad enough! He deserves much worse, but I don’t have to explain myself to a flighty girl who knows nothing about the world outside the little bubble she occupies!”

  “I only know what I see, Mister Darcy,” Elizabeth hissed. “And all I see is your arrogance and your conceit; you don’t care about this farm or the people who work it beyond dollars and cents! You buy and sell everything in your life, but you never earn it! You think you can own anything you like!”

  Except you.

  The words came unbidden to his mind, provoking him beyond all reason. In the space of a second, he moved so that she was pressed against the side of the house, his body holding her firmly in place.

  She gasped and struggled, her eyes blazing. It was that little motion that finally broke his tenuous self-control. He grabbed the back of her neck, not caring that he pulled her hair free of its yellow ribbon, capturing her mouth in a cruel, hard kiss.

  He expected her to freeze, or fight him in some way. He would have released her immediately if she had done either.

  Instead, she dug her fingers into his hair the way he did with hers, pulling him more forcefully to her. Her mouth was fierce against his, meeting his fire with fire of her own. She made a sound of satisfaction, a quick, heavy sigh, and he understood what was happening. This was not a passionate kiss between two would-be lovers. It was a struggle for dominance, and he was losing. He never stood a chance.

  He released her as if his hands were burned, taking a wide step away from her. They faced each other warily, breathing heavily. Elizabeth’s curls hung in disarray around her face and shoulders. With her color high and her eyes gleaming, she looked almost savage in her beauty. Silently, he begged God for clarity, to scrub her from his mind for good. He wondered whether she was his punishment for some past sin, haunting his waking moments and allowing him no peace. He knew he could kiss her again and have her, but in doing so, he would only ever have her darkness. Her light and laughter would never be his. He licked his lips without thinking, tasting her there.

  They glared at each other for several moments before she turned to go back inside, but not before planting a quick, dry slap across his face. He watched her stalk away without a word, touching his hot, throbbing face with a shaky hand.

  ***

  Bingley fell back in his chair, stunned.

  “Jane…I don’t understand.”

  Jane clenched her teeth in an effort to fight her tears. She must say these things without letting him see how much it pained her.

  “I’m sorry, Charles. It just…it won’t work.”

  He sat up, taking her hand. She tried to pull it back. “Jane. Darling girl. I’m in love with you. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Charles, don’t—”

  “Why are you doing this? Is it money? My sisters? I know Caroline is a handful but—”

  “My reasons are my own,” she said, mustering every bit of stoicism she could. “All I ask is that you respect my wishes.”

  “Respect! Jane, what’s happened in the past twenty-four hours to bring on this change?”

  Jane stood, walking briskly to the door. She nearly ran headfirst into a wild-eyed Elizabeth.

  “Can we leave now, Jane?”

  Jane nodded and snatched up her purse, putting the keys to the Bennet’s car in Elizabeth’s hand. She was in no shape to drive now.

  “Good-bye, Mr. Bingley,” she said before darting out of the room and giving in to her tears at last.

  ***

  Once the bed was made, the books rearranged, and the closets organized, Elizabeth still couldn’t bring herself to leave her room. Mr. Darcy’s shocking behavior had been bad enough, but her own wild response was staggering. She couldn’t face anyone, her father least of all. She felt as if everyone would know what had happened just by looking at her.

  If Elizabeth closed her eyes, she could feel his hands in her hair, the suffocating sensation of his strong body pressing her against the wall. Familiar warmth crept up her spine, saturating her neck and face. She’d enjoyed it. Not only enjoyed it—she’d reveled in it.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. The man is a beast,” she muttered. The weight of a man’s body against hers was not a new one after all, but she’d never before experienced one so aggressively demanding.

  She told herself that her own wild respon
se was the result of her self-imposed, Spartan social life. She thought of George Wickham, trying to evoke the same rush of heat, and felt only a tepid pleasure. Physically, George Wickham was to die for, so why couldn’t she feel anything? She threw herself onto her bed, burying her face in the pillows.

  It must be because I hate Will Darcy. There was just as much passion to be found in hatred as there was in love after all. At least that was the reason she was the most comfortable admitting.

  A soft knock on the door made her look up to see Jane’s head peeking through the door.

  “Can I come in, Lizzie?”

  “Of course, darling.” Elizabeth scooted over, making room on the bed for Jane to lie down next to her.

  “You have some mail here.”

  Jane put two items between them as she lay down. One was a small package wrapped in brown paper, the other a thick envelope bearing only her name. Elizabeth picked the envelope up. She didn’t recognize the handwriting.

  “Who could this be from?”

  “It’s from Mr. Darcy.”

  “What?” Elizabeth sat straight up, her heart beating an erratic tattoo against her ribs.

  “The nerve!”

  “Don’t be foolish.”

  Elizabeth noticed her sister’s red face, her eyes swollen from tears. “Oh, Janie, what is it?”

  “I’m all right, Lizzie. It was just…a trying day. Caroline was here earlier.”

  “What did she want?”

  “She was just letting us know that Netherfield will be empty for a few months. Mr. Darcy left this morning, and Mr. Bingley was taking Caroline back to Washington. She doesn’t know when they’ll be back.”

  “I see…” Elizabeth stroked her sister’s hair. “And it did not go well last night, I take it?”

  “Tell me you still keep that bottle of whiskey under your bed, and I’ll tell you all about it.”