In Darcy's Dreams

by Gwendolyn Dash

  No, ma’am, she would not give her age, despite the apparently decided opinions she offered in response to her ladyship’s queries.

  By the time they were called into dinner, she had fixed a greater dislike upon Lady Catherine than she had ever felt, even at its height, for the woman’s nephew.

  During the meal she was seated between a cowed Maria Lucas and an equally silent Mrs. Jenkinson, who seemed primarily engaged in the office of convincing Miss de Bourgh to eat the gruel she had been offered in place of the game and fowl the rest of them were being served. Elizabeth knew not what manner of ailment the young lady suffered, but did not envy her an illness that restricted her diet to such unappetizing portions.

  After dinner, the ladies were shown through, and while Mrs. Jenkinson bustled about setting up a screen for the fire that would best please Miss de Bourgh, Lady Catherine resumed her interrogation of Elizabeth.

  “I have been told by Mrs. Collins that she became acquainted with my nephew when she was still in Hertfordshire. Tell me, Miss Bennet, did you have that honor as well?”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Elizabeth saw Miss Darcy’s head lift, and the quick, curious expression which crossed her features.

  “I did, your ladyship. He was a guest at the home of a new neighbor of ours, Mr. Bingley.”

  “Yes, the tradesman’s son,” said Lady Catherine with a sniff. “Darcy will take up with any manner of men.”

  Miss Darcy’s gaze returned quickly to her lap. Elizabeth felt a twinge of embarrassment on her behalf.

  “Mr. Bingley is a kind and sensible gentleman, ma’am,” said Elizabeth. “Mr. Darcy need not be ashamed of the acquaintance.”

  “Of that one, no,” Lady Catherine replied. Elizabeth wondered if her ladyship referred to the departed.

  “Indeed, I also stayed at Netherfield for several days, and became quite familiar with both of them.”

  “Indeed!” Lady Catherine exclaimed. “But what possible cause could you have had to remain at the house of a bachelor in your neighborhood?”

  Elizabeth colored. “My sister was taken ill while visiting with Miss Bingley and her sister, Mrs. Hurst. I came to nurse her, and Mr. Bingley would not hear of my going home. He was generous enough to allow me to stay close to my sister until she was recovered.”

  “Well!” Lady Catherine deployed her fan quite vehemently, though Elizabeth wondered if she was perturbed by the story or by the fact that it was not a scandalous one.

  “There are few still in Hertfordshire who can claim as close an acquaintance with Mr. Darcy as Miss Bennet,” Charlotte volunteered. “He even condescended to dance with her once, at the Netherfield ball.”

  Miss Darcy ventured to look up once more.

  “Is this so, Miss Bennet?” Lady Catherine asked. “My nephew danced? With you?”

  “Once, your ladyship.” Once successfully. He had asked on multiple occasions. But this topic could lead to danger. She did not wish to discuss the Netherfield ball.

  Miss Darcy was staring at her quite openly now.

  Then again, so was Lady Catherine, and her narrow-eyed expression was not one of approbation.

  It was time to close the subject. “Though his visit to Hertfordshire was of short duration, I believe that he shall always be remembered there.”

  Lady Catherine’s glare turned steely, and Elizabeth too late realized her pert answers to the woman’s earlier intrusive questions.

  Forcing a composure she did not feel, she spoke again, directing her words as much to his sister as to his aunt. “I shall always remember him as a fine and noble gentleman.” There. That was above all the truth.

  Lady Catherine’s chin was lifted, but she seemed satisfied by the statement, directing her attention to Mrs. Jenkinson and her ongoing adventures with the screen.

  Elizabeth stole a glance at Miss Darcy, whose expression remained unreadable. “I hope you have had the pleasure of your brother’s company in London, Miss Darcy.”

  The girl hesitated for a moment. “My brother is not in London.”

  “Oh!” said Elizabeth. “Has he gone home to Derbyshire?”

  “Georgiana,” Lady Catherine demanded. “Do play something for us.”

  Miss Darcy obeyed at once. The pianoforte was opened, and the girl sat down. Her musical talents were quite prodigious, and Elizabeth was pleased to see that at least one of Miss Bingley’s claims were true.

  Chapter 14

  It was more than a week later, after Sir William Lucas had satisfied himself that his eldest daughter was happily settled in her new home and had returned to Hertfordshire, leaving Maria and Elizabeth behind for a long visit at the Hunsford parsonage. Elizabeth was walking a path that had quickly become her favorite course for a morning constitutional. It took her down the lane from the parsonage and into the borders of Rosings Park. The weather had been brisk but beautiful, and she found the silence of the Kentish countryside to be far more to her liking than the confines of the parsonage, where one could never quite be free from Mr. Collins and his conversation. She did not know how Charlotte bore it. Her friend had told her of her clever methods—the way she encouraged Mr. Collins to walk to Rosings every day to confer with her ladyship as to the content of that week’s sermons, the manner with which she also encouraged him to work in his garden and plan more improvements to the rectory. Charlotte found the whole thing very amusing.

  Elizabeth found it all very tiring. How often had she and Jane managed such experiences at home, trying to smooth the nerves of their mother after their father had excited them for his own amusement. The way they braced themselves for their mother’s reactions to every change in scene or society in Meryton. Jane could not exchange pleasantries with an eligible man but Mrs. Bennet would attempt to matchmake. Elizabeth was still bearing the brunt of her mother’s despair a full three months after Mr. Collins’s wedding to another. She could not imagine entering a marriage where such follies were to be constantly orchestrated around, not for any of the freedoms Charlotte now enjoyed as the lady of her own household, nor the comforts that stood as a distant promise for the future.

  Not that Elizabeth spent much time of late imagining that she might marry. No, her ability to judge a gentleman’s character had proved altogether too paltry to be trusted with such a monumental decision as that. For she had found Mr. Wickham very agreeable, indeed, and in the moments before his accident, she had learned how very foolish and mistaken her impression had been.

  And look at her poor sister, Jane. Their acquaintance with Mr. Bingley had been suitably long and intimate to make Elizabeth think she knew the shape of his character, and yet, they had misjudged him terribly as well. He was as fickle and inconstant as any penniless officer who flirted with Lydia. They’d been blinded by the fortune which had made him an eligible match, shown to be as stupid and silly as their mother in the matter of a gentleman’s true intentions.

  Perhaps Charlotte was right after all. Happiness in marriage was entirely a matter of chance. And Elizabeth was ill-inclined to leave it to chance at all, given the events of the past few months.

  An open-air carriage rumbled along the road ahead of her, and as it drew near, she recognized the occupants: Miss de Bourgh, Miss Darcy, and Mrs. Jenkinson. The carriage slowed and stopped.

  “Miss Bennet,” said Miss de Bourgh from her perch. “You are not walking, in all this wind?”

  “As you see,” Elizabeth said with a curtsy.

  The resemblance between Miss de Bourgh and her mother was evident mainly in their frowns. “Beastly weather.”

  “It is a bit brisk, but I so enjoy your park.”

  “Do you often take this walk, Miss Bennet?” asked Miss Darcy, softly.

  Elizabeth hid her astonishment at hearing the girl speak. “Yes, every morning, if the weather is fine.”

  Miss de Bourgh’s nose wrinkled at the very thought. “Well, we have already been out entirely too long already. May we offer you a ride back to the parsonage?”

 
“No thank you,” she replied politely. “I do so love to walk.”

  “How very singular. Do you not think it so, Georgiana?” Miss de Bourgh looked at her companion, who had commenced staring at her lap once more.

  They drove off, and Elizabeth watched them go down the lane, and shook her head. There were ways to find yourself in unpleasant company when unmarried as well.

  The following day, the weather was bright and clear, and as Mr. Collins decided to “help” Charlotte write her letters in the drawing-room, Elizabeth decided to take the opportunity to escape for her usual walk.

  She was just rounding the corner of the path that led into the edge of the park when she caught sight of a slim girl in a flowered dress and bonnet, standing with her hands folded.

  “Miss Darcy?” Elizabeth exclaimed.

  “Hello, Miss Bennet,” said the girl, her voice still very soft.

  “I am surprised to see you out today.”

  “Are you? I find that I, too, enjoy a good walk. Do you mind if I join you?”

  “Not at all,” said Elizabeth, quite curious. Miss Darcy turned and began to walk with Elizabeth.

  “How long do you plan to stay in Kent?” Elizabeth asked as they ambled along.

  “I do not know,” Georgiana responded. “I had not thought I was to leave London at all this season.”

  “I imagine that must be very hard. I have never had the opportunity for an extended stay in town, but I have been told by those you know well that the society is quite incomparable.”

  “Those I know well?” Miss Darcy turned her face in Elizabeth’s direction. “You cannot refer to my—who might you mean, Miss Bennet?”

  “Your friends, Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst. I associated with them quite often when they were lately in Hertfordshire. I had understood that you were well-acquainted.”

  “Oh. Yes. Quite well.”

  “They talk of you very much, and it is all in admiration.”

  “Oh.” She was silent thereafter, and Elizabeth wondered if she had embarrassed the girl. Here, at least, Mr. Wickham could be said to have been in the wrong, for Elizabeth did not detect any undue pride or arrogance in the girl’s demeanor. Rather, she thought Miss Darcy must be exceedingly shy.

  In the interest of making conversation, Elizabeth commented on the ribbons that trimmed Miss Darcy’s bonnet. “They are most becoming. Blue truly suits you.”

  “Thank you,” said the girl, looking away. Abruptly, she turned toward Elizabeth. “I also want to thank you for your kind words regarding my brother the other evening. I believe there are few who would speak as you do.”

  “Few?” Elizabeth repeated. “Surely your brother has many friends.”

  “I mean—few in Hertfordshire. Miss Bennet, you are too generous to trifle with me. You must have heard the wicked things that are being said of him there.”

  Elizabeth caught her breath. “I have.”

  “But you do not believe them.”

  “No.”

  Miss Darcy’s voice broke on a sob. “I cannot either. But neither can I imagine what would cause such a terrible rumor to take root. My brother is the best and kindest of all men, I can assure you. Such evil would never even occur to him.”

  “I know!” Elizabeth blurted. “You must trust that I know all too well.” Miss Darcy reminded her so of her own younger sisters. Poor child, alone among these creatures. She could not imagine that Miss de Bourgh or Lady Catherine made for a good confidante. “I assure you, Mr. Wickham’s death was an accident. A terrible accident, to be sure, but—”

  Miss Darcy had stopped dead upon the path, and stood as still as a statue, her mouth open, her eyes wide with horror. “What did you say?” she whispered.

  “I said Mr. Wickham’s death was an accident.”

  The girl clutched a hand to her chest. “No! It cannot be!”

  She turned and plunged into the shrubbery.

  “Miss Darcy!” Elizabeth cried. “Miss Darcy, wait!” She pushed through the bushes.

  But there was no sign of the young lady at all.

  Chapter 15

  Dear Elizabeth,

  I imagine sometimes, when I write you in this way, what you would think if you did find a letter from me. Would you gasp? Would you burn it, knowing the impropriety? Indeed, as a rational man—rational still, despite this small, private madness—I cannot allow my actions to be anything other than a symptom of my crumbling sense of propriety. And yet, neither can I stop myself.

  Would you read my words? Would you hide these pages away in the folds of your skirt until you found a private place to read them?

  Oh, that these pages could touch your hands. I touched your hands, once. Once, in the ballroom of Netherfield. It was all I thought in that moment that I wanted, and yet it was nothing near to enough.

  You must forgive me, Miss Bennet. I am not myself tonight. I have not been myself in a very long time. I barely eat anymore. I barely sleep. There are faces which haunt my dreams. One will never be seen again on this Earth. Yours will never be seen again by me.

  I am planning a trip into the heart of the mountains, where very few Englishmen go. That is what they tell me, when I come to them for supplies or maps. It is a rare Englishman who would go there, they say, in tones of great surprise. But I suppose I am a rare Englishman. I have always been a rare one. Rarefied. I keep a rare company; I have a rare fortune.

  But you—you were the rarest of all. The things I never told you, my dearest, loveliest Elizabeth. How you spoke to me as no one has ever spoken before. You did not care for all the things I thought were the most valuable about me, and so I thought you unrefined. I did not realize that your good opinion was more worth the earning because it could not be bought.

  A hundred debutantes with twenty thousand pounds apiece might be thrown at my head, but they would matter not at all in the face of your hem, six inches deep in mud and you laughing defiantly. Hems were nothing to a sister in need.

  I believe that, too. I didn’t let myself, but it is the truth. To truly care for one you love—the trappings of good society are nothing to that.

  I ought to burn these letters before I set forth into the wilderness. Should some mishap befall me, I should not want another to see the folly I have written here.

  And yet, I cannot. I know that this letter will never be sent. Still, the very act of composing it allows me hope that the feelings it contains will somehow make their way into your heart.

  God bless you,

  Fitzwilliam Darcy

  Chapter 16

  The following day, Elizabeth surprised everyone by volunteering to accompany Mr. Collins on his walk to Rosings Park.

  “Dear cousin,” he cried happily, “How kind of you. I often rehearse my sermons on my way to Rosings, the better to prepare for my audience with Lady Catherine. It will be good to have an audience of more discernment than the trees and birds.”

  Elizabeth was already regretting her choice.

  “I am sure it will be acceptable for her ladyship if you were to wait in the hall while I am in conference with her.”

  Elizabeth bit her tongue. “Thank you.”

  The walk over was pleasant enough, in the crisp spring air, with the sound of the breeze blowing about the budding trees and, more pleasantly still, drowning out the rise and fall of Mr. Collins’s speeches. Elizabeth nodded along as he spoke. She had become familiar with the manner of his sermons in her time in Hunsford, and found them to be inoffensive, if not rousing. He rarely found an insight into scripture that was particularly illuminating or inspiring, but neither could she complain about anything in his doctrinal assessments.

  She supposed there was a sort of goodness in that. Charlotte was in safe hands with her husband. It was not a life that Elizabeth would have chosen—no, not even for the promise of Longbourn—but she could become reconciled to her friend’s decision.

  Thankfully, they were soon within the grand front hall at Rosings, and Mr. Collins was shown into the study
for his conference with Lady Catherine. Elizabeth was indeed left in the hall, quite alone, and she began to wonder if this entire venture had been in vain. But after a quarter of an hour passed, she heard a set of footsteps upon the landing and looked up to see the reason for her visit descending the stairs.

  “Why, Miss Bennet!” Miss Darcy paused. Her bonnet dangled from ribbons in her hand. “Whatever are you doing here?”

  Elizabeth rose. “I accompanied my cousin—he is in the study at present, discussing this week’s sermon with Lady Catherine.” She allowed the remainder to go unsaid, trusting that the younger woman’s good breeding might fill in the rest.

  “I—I was just about to take a turn in the garden. It is so beautifully clear today, and Anne is not well enough to go out in the carriage.”

  Miss Darcy was also leaving things unsaid. She would keep her walks to the garden now, and not risk whatever had so scared her the previous day.

  “I came by,” Elizabeth said, “in hopes that I might beg your forgiveness for whatever I said that upset you yesterday. It was most unconsciously done.”

  Miss Darcy colored and looked away. “It is not your fault. It is—” her voice broke. “Forgive me, Miss Bennet. It is only that I did not know the identity of the unfortunate soul who...” She pressed a hand to her mouth.

  Of course! Elizabeth bit her lip, ashamed of her loose tongue. Mr. Wickham had been a close friend to the Darcy family for many years. And simply because Mr. Darcy’s affection for him had waned and diminished did not mean the girl knew anything about it. She likely remembered the gentleman only with fondness.

  “I am exceedingly sorry that you heard about it from my lips, and so callously. You must believe I had no notion that you were ignorant of the man’s identity.” She cleared her throat. “May I add only that Mr. Wickham was a friend of mine.” Or at least he had been. And if she sought to ease the girl’s mind, it would not do well to speak of his flaws.