In Darcy's Dreams

by Gwendolyn Dash

  Unless…he cast one more, forlorn glance up the stairs. Unless she had already heard the gentleman’s name, and that is what distressed her so.

  Back in his study, his cousin poured two generous glasses of brandy, handed Darcy one, and took a gulp from the other. “This is a hideous business.”

  “You don’t have to tell me that.”

  “Blasted man. I hope he’s rotting in hell.”

  Darcy stared into his glass. “Do not say such things.”

  “I am sorry to cause you pain, but I most certainly shall say them. I never knew him like you did. I can never remember him as anything other than a grasping, wretched, rakish, careless—” Fitzwilliam cut himself off. “I thought we were rid of him after he spurned your father’s legacy to him and demanded more money. But it was not to be. I further thought our association had ended after you turned him away when that living became vacant. After last summer’s disastrous—” he hesitated again, and looked toward the door of the study. “It does no good to dwell on it. We were only blessed to see no dividends from such an unfortunate affair.”

  Darcy’s jaw clenched. “I do wish you would stop speaking of Ramsgate in such a manner. Matters never went so far as you suppose.”

  “According to whom?”

  “According to Georgiana, and I trust her.”

  Fitzwilliam snorted and poured himself more brandy.

  “Truly!” Darcy insisted. “She could not even keep the news of their secret engagement from me. Think you she would have been able to keep more, especially once I made it clear that any engagement must be a long one, and I would not give her permission to marry or access her dowry until she was of age?”

  It had taken every bit of strength he’d had in that moment to remain calm. Sweet, small little Georgiana, who had been so terrified and so thrilled to inform her brother of her grand new love.

  He didn’t know how he’d controlled his temper in that moment. How he’d made the words his mind shaped—I shall throttle the very life from his body—exit his mouth as, “This is quite an unexpected surprise.”

  Colonel Fitzwilliam was not placated. “Mrs. Younge was not a trustworthy chaperone. She never should have admitted him into Georgiana’s company.”

  “And yet it does not follow that Mrs. Younge, as misguided as she was, would have allowed every liberty you mention.”

  He recalled Wickham’s words on the stairs at Netherfield. That Bennet chit has nothing, and thus nothing that can tempt me to marriage. All I was after was a bit of fun.

  “Or that Wickham would have attempted it. He wanted to marry my sister.”

  “And what better way to ensure such a result than to ruin her?” Fitzwilliam scowled darkly. “I still maintain we would have done better by both to throw the scoundrel from the sea wall and let the eels feast upon his bones.”

  Darcy blinked up at his cousin, who was glowering through the firelight, and chuckled. He hadn’t felt the slightest bit like laughing in weeks. Colonel Fitzwilliam glanced his way in shock.

  “My dear fellow,” Darcy said, “perhaps you ought to have gone into the Navy. Talk like that would make you an excellent privateer.”

  “Ah, the old Darcy does yet exist,” his cousin said, in a tone of some surprise, but far more relief. “I had worried he was gone completely. A stowaway on the soul of someone far less worthy.”

  Darcy sobered. “I have not found much to be amused about of late, it is true.”

  “Another thing I may hold against the dear departed.” Fitzwilliam drained his glass. “He has gotten his revenge even from the grave. The Darcy lady’s reputation remains intact, but the Darcy gentleman’s is tarnished.”

  Tarnished, perhaps, but not obliterated, as Elizabeth Bennet’s might have been if the rumors of a duel had been allowed to spread in her village. “It will subside. They are naught but whispers.”

  “Whispers have felled mighty oaks of England.” Colonel Fitzwilliam poured himself another glass, looked into its depths, and set it aside. “We must attempt to control the damage, as one might a wildfire.”

  Darcy snorted and shook his head. Attempts to stop the rumors were what had sent them down this twisted path. He’d paid to quell the story that Wickham’s death had resulted from a duel over Elizabeth, and now the tale was that he’d paid for Wickham’s death. “I believe the more we work to silence these stories, the more they will twist and grow. Do not feed them. They shall wither and die soon enough. I am a Darcy of Pemberley. My character is known by everyone whom I care to know it.”

  “Your character in town this season is that of a hermit. Forgive me for saying so, but your reputation here has gone from a man who stands in the corner of the ballroom and glowers at everyone in it, to one who does not go to such assemblies at all.”

  Darcy was doing a fair bit of glowering now. “I cannot make merry upon command. If I could not do so upon Bingley’s insistence in the country, I certainly shall not succeed among the society of London, especially knowing what they all might be whispering from behind their fans.”

  His cousin said nothing, just stared into the fire, so Darcy did the same. But the flames held no peace. Nothing here did.

  “Perhaps London is not the place for me this season.”

  “If the rumors are here, they are in Derbyshire, too,” said the colonel. “There you would suffer not only from a reduction in society but also an increase in people who actually knew the blighter.”

  Darcy did not doubt that, but he also knew there were plenty at home who knew of the flaws in Wickham’s character.

  “I wasn’t thinking of Derbyshire,” he replied. No, the woods and fields of Pemberley, the places where he and Wickham had once climbed trees and run races, would only remind him of simpler times. “I thought I might go to the continent. I never had a chance before, due to my father’s illness.”

  “A Grand Tour, now?”

  “Not grand,” Darcy conceded. “I will want to return to Pemberley by summer. But a small tour. Belgium, perhaps. And Switzerland.”

  “Switzerland.” Colonel Fitzwilliam frowned. “I suppose it’s better than Naples.”

  “You did not like Italy on your Grand Tour?”

  “I did not like the places where I found my brother in a drunken stupor, surrounded by dark-haired doxies.”

  Darcy took a drink. “Have no fear.” The only dark-haired lady who had ever intrigued him was not Italian. But thoughts of her were as plagued and fraught as all the rest of late. He tried to remember Elizabeth as she had been, challenging him in the drawing rooms at Netherfield, or damp with mist beneath the bows of the yew, or even sparkling and gay during their one and only dance at the ball.

  All of it paled to another memory, that of Elizabeth Bennet, bathed in moonlight, her face a mask of horror as she stared at Wickham dying in the grass. The memory of her tired eyes and grim countenance the following morning when he’d informed her that the soldier had not lived through the night.

  She had been in love with George Wickham. Just like Georgiana. And he had broken her heart when he told her that Wickham was gone.

  “I know you do not share the proclivities of my elder brother,” his cousin said. “But I am not certain that a journey abroad is the answer to your troubles.”

  “Is it not? It has been the answer for so many in my position.”

  “The divorcé and the wastrel?”

  “Those for whom the society of London holds no joy. If I am not here, they cannot question my moods. I will not provide them further fodder for discussion. It should not take long for this story to be displaced by another scandal.”

  “Will you take your friend Bingley with you?”

  “Bingley?” Darcy scoffed. He was trying to escape his remembrances, not pack them as luggage. Bingley was Netherfield and country lasses. He still brought up Jane Bennet on half the occasions Darcy had been in his company since they’d arrived in London. “No. I shall not take anyone with me.”

  “I do not t
hink that is wise.”

  No, it most likely was the precise opposite. A wise man would not travel to the continent alone. A responsible master of a fine estate such as Pemberley would not undertake such a journey without a very good reason. Darcy had no reason. He just needed to escape.

  Since he was twenty, every moment of his time had been devoted to being wise and responsible, a good guardian to Georgiana. A respectable heir to Pemberley, a scion of the Darcy name.

  And then he’d thrown it all away one night when he’d seen George Wickham put his hands on Elizabeth Bennet.

  Chapter 11

  Elizabeth wondered how much longer the journey would last. Sir William Lucas had spent every minute of the past half hour pointing out the beauties of Kent which could be seen through the windows of the carriage, and speculating about whether or not any part of the pastures they drove by might be a portion of the Rosings estate.

  “The de Bourgh family has quite extensive property,” he said, casting a knowing glance at Maria Lucas. “Our Charlotte has made quite a fortunate alliance.”

  Elizabeth smiled politely, which must have reminded Sir William that the most fortunate part of his Charlotte’s alliance would only come at the expense of Elizabeth’s family losing everything, as he cleared his throat and changed the subject.

  Soon enough, the carriage passed from the lane into a little courtyard, and Elizabeth caught a glimpse of a tidy stone house with ivy creeping up the walls, and there stood Mr. Collins and Charlotte, waving in greeting.

  She disembarked with Maria and Sir William, and everyone was all very happy to see everyone else, and the journey had not been too bad—the roads were good, the company was better, as Sir William proclaimed—and they were quickly taken into the house.

  Mr. Collins was all politeness and amiability as he proudly showed them around his humble abode. Elizabeth could hardly blame him; the parsonage was quite a cozy little home, with many recent improvements both of the Collinses were quick to attribute to the kindness and ongoing interest of their noble patroness. Lady Catherine had picked out this wallpaper, Lady Catherine had told them the best way to arrange the shelves in that closet, Lady Catherine had been quite insistent upon the particular arrangement of the candlesticks on the mantelpiece.

  “What an honor, Charlotte, to receive such particular attention from a woman of her stature!” Sir William exclaimed.

  “Yes, Father, she has been most attentive to me in all things,” Charlotte replied politely.

  If Mr. Collins was particularly insistent on addressing all the wonders of his home to Elizabeth, she decided to take little notice, and focused instead on how her friend reacted to his speeches and pronouncements. From time to time, when her husband’s proclamations were at their most embarrassing, Charlotte seemed to blush slightly, but for the most part, like Elizabeth, she chose not to hear the whole of his conversation.

  It was, Elizabeth must confess, rather a sensible approach to take toward the life Charlotte had chosen for herself. In the house and grounds and gardens, Elizabeth could find little fault. The living was a prosperous one and would afford them much comfort for many years to come.

  Many, many years, God willing.

  Soon enough, they were left to their own devices. Elizabeth and Maria, who were sharing a room, unpacked and freshened up after their long journey. The Lucases accompanied Mr. Collins into the garden to see in person the new turkey-house that Lady Catherine had insisted be built upon the property, and Elizabeth finally found a moment to speak to her friend alone.

  She still was not certain what had inspired Charlotte to invite her to Hunsford. Her letter, coming only a few short weeks after her marriage, had been most insistent, and was followed up nearly immediately by a visit to Longbourn from Maria and her father, repeating the invitation and exhorting Elizabeth in the strongest terms not to turn it down.

  To own the truth, she hadn’t really considered turning it down. She’d missed Charlotte since her friend’s wedding in January, and with Jane still in London with the Gardiners, sensible society at home was limited. Her youngest sisters filled the house with officers from the regiment at every available opportunity, and when they did, Elizabeth endeavored to make herself scarce.

  She did not like the stories they told, and she could not find a way to effectively counter them.

  In the narrative that had emerged in Meryton, most particularly the parts that favored the presence of the regiment and the officers belonging to it, Mr. Darcy was a villain of the sort most often reserved for breathless and sensational novels. Beneath the veneer of gentility his wealth and station afforded him, he was capable of any manner of vicious acts. The good people of Hertfordshire were only fortunate that he had quit the county without leaving more bodies in his wake.

  Elizabeth hated that a few short months earlier, she might have taken some pleasure, or at least some amusement, in the thought of a man she had so disliked being so often and so thoroughly maligned. It would have felt a harmless business. He would never return to their neighborhood, so it hardly signified what ridiculous and obviously untrue tales might be told in the Meryton market square.

  She was thoroughly ashamed that this was once her outlook. That she had been so willing to believe the worst of a man, merely because she had taken offense at a conversation which she ought never to have overheard. That she might imagine him guilty of anything evil, merely because she had decided upon short acquaintance that he was disagreeable.

  He would doubtless never hear what was being said about him, and given his lack of interest in their little hamlet, would probably care very little what was being said of him in Meryton. But she would be forever grateful to him for protecting her reputation, especially given what it was costing him. He was not as proud as she thought—no, he was not proud at all. The quality she had mistaken for pride was something far more rare. It was honor.

  But it would do little good to dwell on all of that now. She was in Kent—far from all of that unpleasantness. For once, she would be able to sit in a drawing-room and talk of something else. It was a situation much to be desired, for all that it entailed the company of Mr. Collins.

  “And how does Jane fare in London, Eliza?” Charlotte asked. They were seated in her drawing-room, watching through the window as Mr. Collins gave his in-laws a minute tour of every inch of shrubbery.

  “Quite well, I believe,” replied Elizabeth. “I know my aunt enjoys her company, and my cousins love her dearly.”

  “But she has renewed her acquaintance with Mr. Bingley, has she not?” Charlotte pressed. “I cannot imagine the good of her going to town if not to see him.”

  Elizabeth kept her composure. “I do not believe they have seen each other, no. Though I know Jane called on Miss Bingley, and that the call had been returned.” Several weeks later, as a point of fact, on the very cusp of civility. It was clear even to good-natured Jane that her friend had no intention of continuing their connection, and though Elizabeth had her doubts that Mr. Bingley was aware of Jane’s presence in London, Jane insisted that he, too, must want to drop the acquaintance entirely.

  “What a terrible shame,” Charlotte said. “To have chased him all that way only to be disappointed.”

  Elizabeth bit her lip. “She did not chase him.”

  “I apologize. I only meant to say that this was how it might seem to onlookers. I should not have blamed her, at any rate. You recall how I once said she should be more encouraging. Well, this is what comes for those who do not take the opportunities when they arise.”

  As Charlotte herself had, Elizabeth imagined. But she said nothing.

  “Poor Jane. She is so fair, though. I am sure it will not be long until she catches another man’s eye. Let us hope that he is situated well. Though I suppose it is unlikely she will ever again have a chance with someone like Mr. Bingley. Tell me, do the Gardiners have connections in society which might be of use?”

  Elizabeth thought it best to change the conversation e
ntirely. “I was so pleased to receive your invitation, Charlotte, though it did come as quite a surprise.”

  Charlotte smiled. “Oh, not at all. No sooner had I arrived here than I came to understand precisely what I missed most about Hertfordshire. My father cannot remain long, and your being here, along with Maria, is all things most soothing to me as I grow used to my new home.”

  “I am happy to help you in any way that I can,” Elizabeth said.

  Charlotte’s smile grew wider, and her tone was one of relief. “I do think you will be pleasing to Lady Catherine as well. We dine at Rosings at least twice a week.”

  “Ah, the inimitable Lady Catherine de Bourgh. I do admit that I am intrigued to catch a glimpse of her!”

  “You shall do far more than glimpse. We are engaged to dine with them tomorrow evening. Mr. Collins has plans to announce it himself this dinner, but I hoped to give you the news in advance. He is very desirous that you should have an audience with her.”

  “Indeed?” Elizabeth replied, much astonished. “I cannot imagine why.” There was little reason for Lady Catherine to know aught of anyone in her entire family, but for the fact that they currently held the estate that was entailed upon her clergyman.

  “I am afraid it is my doing.” Charlotte folded her hands in her lap and looked down. “Mr. Collins, of course, is vastly concerned with the well-being of his patroness, and she has been much disturbed by the content of the letters I receive from my family in Meryton.”

  “Lady Catherine reads your letters?” Elizabeth blinked.

  “No, of course not,” said Charlotte. “My husband reads them, and he has undertaken to report to her ladyship anything he feels important to the standing of Rosings Park. Such as the rumors surrounding a certain gentleman who visited the neighborhood.”

  Dread knotted in the pit of Elizabeth’s stomach. So she was not to be free from discussions of Mr. Darcy after all.