by Iris Lim
“My sister had no such praise for me.”
“Georgiana?” Elizabeth split her mind between attending to his words and supporting his body.
“I apologized to her – last night.” He gripped her hand tighter as they moved over a large rock. His admission caught her entirely by surprise. He continued, unperturbed, “She did not welcome the sentiment overly much.”
A sadness sprung within Elizabeth – compassion for this broken, unlikely man.
“She shall discover your kindness when she finds her true love,” Elizabeth professed. Their feet landed in unison upon the smoother path.
“True love,” he muttered. His limitations caused their steps to progress slowly. A small, grim smile crept onto his lips. “It is not too mythical a hope?”
“It is – entirely possible.” Elizabeth felt her own skin warm. The crook in the path demanded that she walk closer to her tall, intriguing companion. “There are stories –”
“In novels and legends?” His smile relaxed. “Life does not promise the epic for the ordinary man.”
“Or woman, perhaps,” she conceded. They strolled leisurely down the familiar path, meandering slowly towards Netherfield.
Their conversation lulled for a few moments. The birds’ morning song framed their steps.
“Are you a believer of destiny, Miss Elizabeth?” The question he uttered did not insult, nor offend. He spoke in a manner so calm that he might just as well have been mentioning the inevitable onset of winter.
“I trust Providence – and its hand of wisdom.” She pondered as she spoke. “I suppose one could refer to such sovereignty as destiny.”
He nodded wordlessly. She wondered if he was pleased with her reply.
“Is it as much an act of destiny that Richard wed Miss Lucas as his not wedding my sister?”
Now, he sounded as if he only talked to himself.
Elizabeth looked towards the ground for a moment. Was Providence as kind as it was cruel?
“Miss Elizabeth.”
“Yes, I believe,” Elizabeth answered. “For destiny cannot contradict itself.”
“And it is upon those ground that you believe a love greater than Richard’s would come to my sister.” He stopped walking and turned to face her. Her arm, previously linked in his, fell to her side. Then, his hand rose and reached tentatively for her cheek. She let him find it.
Elizabeth looked directly upon his face, and her heart began to run amok.
“And what of you, Miss Elizabeth?” He looked at her as if he saw her. His breath kissed the skin on her nose.
“Of me?”
“Has destiny – will destiny – be as kind to you as you believe it shall be to Georgiana?”
His lips hovered close – so close to hers that one small sway would rest them upon each other. Her breath grew short, faint.
“Mr. Darcy –”
“And perhaps, to me?” A note of uncertainty resonated in his tone. He leaned his forehead forward, as if aiming for hers.
Just then, a twig snapped above her and landed beside her feet.
She snapped just as quickly out of his spell.
“Mr. Darcy, shall I –” She extricated herself from his touch, not having realized in the first place that he had rested his other hand on her shoulder, walking stick forgotten. “Shall I continue walking you to Netherfield?”
He stood still. If there was disappointment at all, he hid it well.
“It would be most helpful, madam. Please.”
• • •
They remained quiet for the remainder of their solitude. On Elizabeth’s part, she soaked in the day’s events, the rustling path, and the morning air with equal parts appreciation and surprise. The fact that they had met at all had been surprising enough. His apologies and subsequent actions – had been even more so.
Would she ever decipher this man?
“Ah, I see my charge has been running about!”
Elizabeth kicked one last pile of leaves before she looked up. Mr. Wickham, true to his tone, stood ten paces away with a smirk on his face.
She nearly rolled her eyes at his childishness.
“I have been duly cared for, you see.” Mr. Darcy smiled as he spoke. Elizabeth noticed, rather suddenly, that he had been smiling for the greater duration of their stroll.
“Very carefully.” Mr. Wickham’s smirk deepened.
Elizabeth traced the direction of his eyes – and quickly disentangled herself from Mr. Darcy. Had they truly been standing that close for so long?
Mr. Darcy spoke calmly, undaunted, “You did well to leave me, George.”
“As you wish. Your request was of the early sort today, of course.” As if in demonstration, the glorified valet yawned dramatically.
Elizabeth frowned, unimpressed.
“Forgive my whims,” Mr. Darcy responded, still smiling. The harshness of his brow – so often displayed in company – was entirely absent today.
She learned earlier today that he trusted her.
Now she realized, with no small measure of panic, that there was a man the master of Pemberley trusted more.
Lydia’s words from fortnights past – accusations of Mr. Darcy, defenses for Mr. Wickham – echoed in her mind, deepening her unrest.
“My friend is fortunate, Miss Elizabeth, that you seem to be generous enough to indulge his whims as well.” Mr. Wickham’s smile, his voice, and his manner proved beguiling.
Elizabeth stepped back by a foot.
She forced a smile. “Your master is a wise man. I do well to attend to his confessions.”
The smirk returned, prompting Elizabeth a belated epiphany over what her words might have suggested.
“There is nothing improper going on here, Wickham. I suggest you silence your mind.” Despite the strong words, Mr. Darcy still spoke with a teasing tone.
She did not understand both men.
“You wound me, Darce. How do you frame my thoughts so exceedingly well each time?” Mr. Wickham replied.
“Nearly thirty years of company proffer much by way of observation.”
“Despite your eyes.”
“Despite my eyes.” The taller man smiled serenely.
Was this the easy relationship Mr. Wickham so widely slandered in town? Was the kindness of his master and friend a testament of good character – or a cover for a deeper family secret? She knew, more so today than ever, that Mr. Darcy was a man of good character.
‘He stole poor Mr. Wickham’s birthright and usurped him as master of Pemberley – only because he was blind!’
Still, Lydia’s careless words haunted, undermined, and annoyed.
Elizabeth blinked away any expression of her thoughts.
“If you are quite done with him, Miss Elizabeth, I believe my duty demands that I assist Mr. Darcy here in finding his way home.” Mr. Wickham addressed her again. His smile was handsome – charming.
Elizabeth paused, confused.
“Miss Elizabeth, I thank you again for granting my entreaties audience.” Mr. Darcy turned towards her. She wordlessly allowed him to find her hand and lift it to his lips.
She let go – reluctantly.
“The honor is mine, sir.”
She believed him – his kindness, sincerity, and goodness. She knew she could not observe a man so lengthily and still be wrong about her judgment.
She wondered, as the two men walked away a moment hence, if Mr. Darcy knew his own character.
She wondered if he knew his friend’s.
• • •
Ten Years Ago
• • •
“Mama, I did not –”
Elizabeth’s protest could not stop the hand that slapped her face.
“Mama.” She sniffed – aching, hurt, betrayed. “It was not I who broke it!”
“It was you, Lizzy. I saw you!” Lydia shrieked. Lizzy shook her head.
“Confess, Elizabeth, or – I swear – you sleep outside tonight!” Mama growled. Elizabeth had grown m
any inches of late, but Mama was still taller. “That was your grandfather’s vase!”
“I did not even come close to it, Mama,” Elizabeth pleaded. When she reached out her hands, Mama pulled away.
“Your father ought to be ashamed of you, Elizabeth – all wild and unladylike and clumsy.”
“Mama,” cried Elizabeth. She wished to fall on her knees – but knew to do so would be as good as to admit to an act she did not do.
“Fanny, enough,” Papa said from behind her.
Elizabeth turned slowly, sniffing every other second.
“If Elizabeth said she did not break it, then she did not.” Papa rested a hand on her shoulder. Elizabeth wished she could turn and hug her father – if only Mama wouldn’t be further incensed by the act.
“Lydia saw her!” Mama insisted. Elizabeth heard little Lydia sneer.
“And who is to say Lydia did not break the vase herself?” Papa replied. “‘Tis often that the guilty party accuse another first.”
“Papa!” It was Lydia who wailed now.
“Thomas, you cannot think –”
“I believe Lizzy,” Papa declared. “No one shall punish her further for what I believe to be untrue.”
Chapter 10:
The Ruinous Lover
“Elizabeth!”
Despite the clarity of word and urgency of tone, she chose not to stir.
“Eliza!” It called again.
Elizabeth turned against the window side, too content with her daydreams to sacrifice them for reality. It had been two days since she and Mr. Darcy reconciled. Drifting fantasies – at all hours – had turned ever sweeter since then.
“Eliza,” the female voice turned pleading – so she begrudgingly obliged.
“Charlotte?” Elizabeth did not take long to sit up straight. Her friend, trim and tidy, did not come alone.
Charlotte nodded vehemently as she came into view.
“Lydia?” Elizabeth wondered aloud. Dragged into sight behind Charlotte, her sister was barely recognizable – muddied, disheveled – damaged. “Lydia – what happen –”
“Mr. Wickham happened, Eliza,” Charlotte blurted, a tear in her own voice.
“Mr. Wickham,” echoed Elizabeth. Her heart grew cold, its veins icy. Her head raged – burning in fury. Suddenly, she grasped the window sill with force. “Lydia, what were you doing?”
“We were merely having fun, Lizzy!” Her youngest sister protested, without a single drop of remorse. If not for the arm Charlotte clearly wrangled, the youngest Bennet girl might still be on the run. “We tripped when he kissed me, and we simply –”
“Lydia!” Elizabeth thundered, realizing the gravity with every passing moment.
“Shall we take her inside?” Charlotte offered.
“Immediately.” Elizabeth rushed faster to the door than she had ever done in her twenty years of life. The two older ladies strong-armed the younger one indoors.
It did not take long for the servants to notice, and Elizabeth muttered an excuse about a fictional accident when the swarms approached to help their pretty, young mistress. Lydia basked openly in the attention – and was quick to hyperbolize her accident by the road.
Elizabeth sighed when her sister, finally, was delivered into Mama’s arms.
“Oh Lydia!” The true mistress of Longbourn did not disappoint in her fussing, and Lydia was ensconced in bed – water and nightgown and all – within the hour.
Accompanied by Charlotte, and by the thought of the truth, Elizabeth collapsed upon the couch.
“Charlotte, we are ruined.” Elizabeth closed her eyes. The guilt of waiting, and the guilt of her own passivity, threatened to overwhelm. Had she not doubted Mr. Wickham’s character? How had she – suspicious already – allowed the villain to have freedom still – freedom to assault her sister?
“Eliza, not many know,” Charlotte comforted.
Elizabeth groaned. “Were they hidden?”
Charlotte looked down upon her lap. Elizabeth frowned, knowing already their demise.
“Not many travel that path, I suppose,” her friend offered gently.
Elizabeth clasped Charlotte’s hands. “What did you see?”
“Mr. Wickham –” Charlotte paused. It was never good when Charlotte paused. She inhaled deeply, then sighed. “Lydia and Mr. Wickham were embracing – and she did indeed fall into the mud. He did not help her out, however, and seemed content to – encourage further contact on the ground.”
“Oh Charlotte!”
“I screamed when I saw who they were, and they both stopped to look my way. Mr. Wickham had the sense to scramble off your sister – but Lydia merely giggled where she was.”
Elizabeth shut her eyes tightly. Ruin was upon them – ruin of the total kind!
“I cried Lydia’s name then,” Charlotte narrated on. “Mr. Wickham glared at me once more before running off – to where, I do not know. Lydia pouted upon the muddied ground, looking rather abandoned.”
Elizabeth sniffed.
“I took her straight here afterwards, Eliza. Do not fret. All may not yet be lost.”
“You have found love, Char – and need not worry,” Elizabeth muttered. Her friend looked contrite, so Elizabeth offered a small, bitter smile.
“Forgive my thoughtlessness.”
“No – it is fine.” Elizabeth sighed. Upstairs, a dozen pair of feet pattered about – all serving their undeserving princess.
Her mind constructed the scene Charlotte described. Her sister, the most shameless gentlewoman of humankind, allowed her lover such liberties – encouraged and desired such open, blatant ruination.
Did she think, even for a moment, of her family? Did Lydia wonder, at all, if her actions were right or wrong?
“Eliza,” Charlotte coaxed.
Again, Elizabeth sighed. Lydia was at fault, but so was her lover.
“Are they, perhaps – engaged?” Charlotte asked.
Elizabeth paused to ponder the possibility.
“No, I’m afraid. Lydia would never keep silent if they were.
“Perhaps it is an engagement of the secret sort? Perhaps they wished to gradually inform the people in their lives, in person.”
“Like you and your colonel?” Elizabeth, at last, had some mood to tease.
Charlotte blushed. “Eliza.”
“I jest, Charlotte. I could never make sport of your happiness.”
For a few more moments, the friends remained silent.
“I suppose I must inform my father,” said Elizabeth, when the grief could no longer be ignored. “He must not be permitted to believe that it was all an accident.”
Charlotte nodded and stood with her. “I would gladly bear witness to your father.”
Elizabeth smiled at her friend – perhaps her only friend from this time on. She could not expect, after all, that the Netherfield party would welcome her still when her sister debased herself so.
Elizabeth sighed at the fearful thought that Mr. Bingley might become convinced of Jane’s unsuitability.
“That is your father’s study – is it not?” Charlotte – ever practical – asked.
Elizabeth looked at her friend, then at the door she indicated.
She nodded with another, heavy-hearted sigh.
• • •
Darcy wondered, at times, if he would ever have become as much of a man of habit as he was had his eyes been free to roam the world.
Sipping tea where he sat today – a lonely soul in an unused study – he felt rather inclined to believe that a preference for stillness and routine was a matter of personality, and not ability. He was fairly certain, after all, that Wickham and Richard, if rendered blind, would be every bit as loquacious and stubborn as they were now.
“Mr. Darcy.” The footman’s voice did not shock him – but was, still, a surprise.
He turned cautiously towards it. “Yes.”
“A Mr. Thomas Bennet to see you, sir.”
Darcy pulled back. It was news that
he had not expected – not at all.
“He is not here to call on Mr. Bingley?”
“No, sir. Mr. Bennet has come in – urgency, sir – and asked directly for you.”
Darcy frowned, unable to fathom this strange turn of events.
“Did he mention why?” He wondered aloud.
“He did not say, sir – merely mentioned that the matter was pressing.”
“I see.” The master of Pemberley shifted around upon his chair – making sure that he faced the entrance. He posed his hands primly upon the arms of his seat. “Then I shall see him.”
He heard the footman bow, walk, and close the door. He took note of the early hour, knowing that if George had been present to assist, he would be outdoors still.
He frowned for a moment, wondering if it was exactly his morning walks of late that had caused Mr. Bennet’s sudden arrival.
Did the father, or another person, witness the solitary company he had been keeping with Miss Elizabeth? Was he here to demand marriage – to ask him to clear her name?
Darcy was convinced he had never compromised the lady.
But he did not find the thought of being compelled to marry her entirely detestable either.
“Mr. Darcy!” The greeting followed the tossing open of Bingley’s rented door. It was as if a wind followed the angry neighbor.
“Mr. Bennet.” Darcy nodded his head. “Please, forgive my inhospitality.”
The older man scoffed, harsh enough to disturb a few delicate pages. Darcy felt, as much as heard, the papers flitting to the floor.
“I fear inhospitable is hardly sufficient of a word to describe your infamy, sir.”
Darcy frowned as the thunderous voice landed upon his ears.
He sniffed, then sighed, choosing kindness for Elizabeth’s sake. “I have exerted every effort to be a kindly neighbor, Mr. Bennet. Would you care to enlighten me regarding the roots of my supposed transgressions?”
The visitor scoffed again. Then, he began to pace.
“Mr. Darcy, I understand that you and your friends are of a higher social caliber than that of our lowly Hertfordshire neighbors,” Mr. Bennet began.
Darcy bristled at the description – but listened on.
