Mr. Darcy's Indiscretions

by Valerie Lennox

  “Of course I remember all the servants at Pemberley,” said Darcy. “Why wouldn’t I? Am I given to understand you are seeking me out? What can I do for you?”

  “I’ve been sent to find you by your father,” said Mr. Patkins. “I’m afraid it’s not good news. He’s come down with an illness. At first, we thought nothing of it, but the sickness has tarried on and on, worsening. Your father seems to think that he will not recover, and his doctors agree.”

  “What are you saying?” said Darcy. “My father is… dying?”

  “He wishes to see you.”

  “Of course,” said Darcy. “It’s only that I must… I have… There’s a woman.” He licked his lips. “How long do you think my father will last?”

  “I couldn’t say, sir, but I would not put it off, not if you wish to see him before he is gone.”

  “I see,” said Darcy, sighing. “Well, then, I assume you are equipped to take me to him directly.”

  “I am,” said Patkins.

  “I must write a letter,” said Darcy.

  * * *

  Dearest Elizabeth,

  I pray this letter reaches you. I cannot send it with the regular post. As we both know, it would be scandalous for you to receive a letter from a gentleman to whom you are not officially engaged. I would have liked to assume that we are engaged, even if such things had not been formally decided, but I have word that you are engaged to Mr. Collins.

  I do not know what happened, but I am choosing to believe that you were pressured to do so by your family, and that your heart belongs to me as it did when we fell asleep in each other’s arms.

  Perhaps I am mistaken in that assumption, and if so, I beg you to disabuse me of the notion. If you are pleased to become Mrs. Collins, I surely shall not stand in your way.

  I would be making this case to you in person if it were possible, but I have just learned that my father is on his deathbed, and that he is inquiring after me. I must go to him. I cannot delay, for his time is short on this earth, or so I am told.

  I beg your apologies for doing this in a letter, especially one that I am sending to be passed to your kitchen maid. If there were another way, I would not be going about it thus.

  But I have no choice, so I am left to ask for something I have no right to ask.

  Break your engagement. Tell Collins you will not have him.

  Wait for me.

  I am coming back to you. I have purchased my mother’s estate, and I am no longer without income. I can take care of you, and I beg you for the opportunity to show you that.

  Again, I know I have no right to ask this of you, but if I cannot touch you again, I may lose my mind. I am a wretched man, but I already think of you as mine.

  I remain yours.

  Always.

  Hopefully,

  Fitzwilliam Darcy

  * * *

  Elizabeth received the news from Mr. Bingley that Mr. Darcy had left the regiment and had not given any news as to where he was going. No one knew what had happened to him or where he had gone. She wanted to be surprised by it, but she wasn’t.

  Something had gone numb in her when it came to men. She had begun to realize that she was a terrible judge of character. She had not seen the wickedness in Mr. Wickham in the beginning, and she had been similarly tricked by Mr. Darcy.

  Meanwhile, a letter was delivered to Collingsworth in the kitchen by a passing man on horseback. He was insistent that it be delivered directly to Miss Elizabeth Bennet as soon as possible.

  Collingsworth tucked the letter away to give to Miss Elizabeth at her earliest convenience. And then she was accosted by Mrs. Bennet, who was insistent that she and the cook come together to speak of what might be done if Mr. Bingley were to be invited to dinner.

  By the time Collingsworth remembered the letter, it was dinner time and Elizabeth was otherwise occupied. She went about her duties and promised herself she would deliver it after dinner.

  But it slipped her mind.

  She didn’t remember the letter again until the next morning, and she set off to find Elizabeth. But Elizabeth was in the library with her father, having some hushed discussion about the future, and Collingsworth could not interrupt. She did not want to forget the letter again, so she tucked it under the coverlet of Elizabeth’s pillow, peeking out where it could not be missed.

  However, later, when the maid came to turn down the beds for sleeping, the letter was pushed under the pillow, and Elizabeth slept on top of it, unaware.

  The next morning, the bed was made up and when her pillow was fluffed, the letter fluttered out of sight.

  It fell behind the bed, and there it stayed for quite some time.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Mr. Darcy stood in the room, staring down at the lifeless body of his father.

  Too late.

  His father was gone. In fact, when Mr. Patkins had been speaking to him in London, it had been too late. He could have gone straight to Elizabeth after all. There was no need to have rushed. There was nothing here but the shell of a man who had never loved him, not the way Darcy had craved love.

  But now, he would not leave. He would not go back to Hertfordshire. He would not do any of it, because there were arrangements to be seen to. His father was gone, and there would be a funeral, and he would be in mourning for six months.

  It was strange, because he had not seen his father for quite some time, and he had thought that all he felt toward the man was anger and resentment, but looking down on his body lying there, Darcy was devastated.

  He felt as though the world had swallowed him up in a gray fog, and he was astounded at the depths of his sorrow.

  He went to the bedside and caught his father’s hand in his own. “I had questions for you,” he murmured. “I don’t suppose I’ll ever know the answers now.”

  Of course, there was no response from his father’s corpse.

  “Why could you never have believed me?” Darcy whispered. “Why could you never have put me first? I was your son. All I ever wanted was your favor.”

  Now, Darcy would never get it. It was going to be withheld from him forever.

  Perhaps that was why it was all so painful. He couldn’t be sure.

  Abruptly, he left the room and went off through the house. He wandered aimlessly for some time and then settled in a drawing room in the east wing, where he rang for a bottle of brandy. He sipped that from a glass and stood at the window and watched the sun move across the sky.

  He did that for days.

  Servants came and tried to get him to come down for dinner, but he didn’t. They wanted to know about sending for his sister to come back for the funeral. He laughed bitterly and said he wasn’t sure if his relations would release Georgiana to his custody. He had been deemed a bad influence to be kept away from her. He was fairly certain that Georgiana still resided at Rosings with his aunt Lady Catherine.

  He’d heard that his cousin Anne had finally married last year. Lady Catherine used to want Darcy to marry Anne, but no longer. It was probably dreadful for Georgiana there, alone now, with their gorgon of an aunt.

  But would things be better here for her?

  “Send a letter,” said Darcy. “Tell her she may come if she wishes. I care not.”

  More time passed.

  A servant came to tell him that there was no response from Longbourn, and that the local paper had run an announcement that Miss Bennet and Mr. Collins were to be wed.

  Darcy was surprised that the news produced positively no emotion within him.

  It didn’t make sense why she’d done that. No sense at all.

  Ah, but maybe it did. The way he’d behaved with her, it was abominable. He’d known from the first moment she’d spoken that she would make him lose control.

  But Collins? She was to be married to that?

  It didn’t matter.

  Nothing mattered.

  The funeral happened, and Georgiana attended, along with Lady Catherine, Anne and her husband, an
d the Fitzwilliam clan, none of whom so much as acknowledged his existence. He wasn’t much for conversation these days, however, so he didn’t care.

  There seemed to be nothing he cared about anymore.

  He was stunned by it. Truly, he was. He hadn’t understood what it had all been about. He thought he’d been working all those years to get back Hawthorne Abbey for himself. But now he realized it had never been about him. It had been about earning his father’s affection back. No, not back. Earning it in the first place.

  Now that there was no hope of his ever having anything from his father, he realized it was the only thing he’d ever wanted, his whole life.

  And without that to work towards, what was the point of anything?

  Wickham came to the funeral too, but Darcy didn’t care. Wickham seemed a bit of a mess over it, truly. He sobbed openly over the casket, lingering at the graveside long after others had left.

  Darcy avoided him. He left Wickham to cry there and he went home.

  This was all his now.

  Funny how he couldn’t care less.

  * * *

  “I feel dreadful,” Jane was saying. She and Elizabeth were sitting in the drawing room. It was February and they had both been trapped indoors all winter. “I never noticed him when Wickham was around. He was there all along, being lovely, and I was oblivious, because all I could see was that awful man.”

  “I don’t think that’s your fault,” said Elizabeth. “Besides, it’s not as if you ever thought badly of Mr. Bingley.”

  “No, but I never thought of him at all.”

  “And now you do think of him.”

  “I don’t think I deserve to,” said Jane. “I don’t deserve him at all. Why is he so attentive to me? Why is he so good? He is everything I could want. He has been so patient. And he never thinks of himself, only of my comfort. Why, he was ready to shoot Wickham for me.”

  “Yes, well, he rather bungled that,” said Elizabeth.

  “But it was a fine sentiment,” said Jane.

  “To be sure,” said Elizabeth. “If you are so enamored of him, what is the trouble?”

  “My conscience is all,” said Jane. “How could I ever accept all his compliments and goodness after everything I’ve done?”

  “You’ve done nothing. I don’t know why you persist in blaming yourself,” said Elizabeth. “Wickham deserves the blame.”

  “Do you think Mr. Darcy is the only one to blame in your situation?”

  “Certainly,” said Elizabeth airily.

  Jane raised her eyebrows.

  “Listen, it is not the same with Mr. Darcy,” said Elizabeth. “Besides, he… from what we heard, his father died. He is in mourning, and he has inherited such a large estate and all of that… income.” She made a face.

  “Ten thousand a year. Yes, no wonder he is no longer interested in the woman he ruined,” muttered Jane.

  “I’m not ruined. No one knows,” said Elizabeth.

  “And yet, you and I can both feel it from both Mama and Papa. That neither of us is expected to marry. That we are both used and damaged and—”

  “Is this not about the fact that you suspect Mr. Bingley is going to ask for your hand?”

  Jane sighed. “Oh, I can’t accept him. It’s not fair. You and I are in quite the same situation, but you have no Mr. Bingley doting on you.”

  “No, I do not,” said Elizabeth. “Which is precisely why you must accept him. So that you can have me living with you as a maiden aunt to your children for the rest of my days. Do it for my sake, so that you can rescue us both from this house before Mary and Mr. Collins take it over.”

  Jane took a deep breath. “Perhaps that is a good reason.”

  “Oh, Jane, I am not serious. If you do not wish to marry Mr. Bingley—”

  “That is just the trouble. I want to marry him very much. I am in love with him.”

  “Then I really do not see why you need any other reason to accept him. You are being quite, quite silly.”

  Jane smiled a little. “Perhaps I am.”

  “You are. He adores you. If you feel the same, then you two must be together and be happy. All I have ever wanted for you is your happiness.”

  “But I also want your happiness,” said Jane.

  “Seeing you happy will make me happy,” said Elizabeth. “That, indeed, will make me happier than anything else could.”

  * * *

  And so, when Mr. Bingley did ask for Jane’s hand in marriage, she was happy to accept, and the wedding was planned for only a few weeks hence.

  Elizabeth was excited for her sister on the wedding day. It was one of the happiest days of her life, and she was quite pleased.

  Jane and Bingley went off on their honeymoon, and Elizabeth went home.

  Her mother decided that Elizabeth should go to visit Mary and Mr. Collins at Rosings in Kent. Elizabeth was sure this was so she could concentrate on Kitty and Lydia, who were her favorites. She didn’t know what to do with Elizabeth, and it did no good to have an older, unmarriageable daughter in the way at every social obligation.

  Whatever the case, Elizabeth went. She was not overly excited at the thought of seeing either Mary or Mr. Collins, but a bit of travel was always appealing.

  In early March, she was shipped off for an expected stay of some months.

  When she left, the letter from Mr. Darcy was still behind her bed, still undiscovered.

  * * *

  “Well,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, “at least you’re not gambling again.”

  Mr. Darcy squinted up at his cousin. It was morning, at least it appeared to be so by the light that was pouring painfully through the window, but he seemed to have fallen asleep over a bottle again last night. It was becoming a bit of a habit for him. He never seemed to manage to make it to bed anymore, at least not until after breakfast, when he would sleep away the morning hours, get up and make an attempt to attend to business in the afternoon before beginning to drink again.

  “What are you doing here?” said Darcy. “I didn’t think you were speaking to me. I didn’t think anyone in your family was.”

  “Apparently, I’m speaking to you,” said the colonel. “I’ve come about Georgiana.”

  Darcy rubbed his face. He needed to shave. “What the devil? Is my sister all right?”

  “You and I have always shared her guardianship, but you are now master of Pemberley, and you are her brother. She can’t very well get married without your permission.”

  Darcy shot to his feet. “Married? She’s not even out in society.”

  “As I well know,” said Fitzwilliam.

  “And yet, she has offers of marriage? What is going on at Rosings, man? I had thought my aunt better equipped to protect her than this.”

  “As had I,” said the colonel. “But I caught Georgiana with him on the grounds not but two days ago. I have no doubt he had engineered it all. Your sister loves to ride, after all, and she often goes so fast that none who go out with her can keep up. She gets rather far ahead and is alone, and I imagine it was by his design.”

  “Whose?”

  “Mr. Wickham,” said the colonel.

  Darcy’s stomach turned. “Of all the perverse, unnatural…” He could not even continue.

  “Now, I have spoken at length with Georgiana,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, “and I am quite convinced nothing untoward has happened. Not so much as a kiss on the cheek. However, from the way that Wickham spoke to me, he seems intent on finding a way to your sister’s hand—or rather to her money. Will you not bring her home here?”

  “Where is that worm? Is he yet in Kent?” said Darcy. “I shall wring his neck once and for all.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “Now, you mustn’t mind that your garments are not as fine as the ones that Lady Catherine herself can afford, or, indeed, that your society is so far beneath a great woman such as herself,” Mr. Collins was saying. “Why, Mrs. Collins shall attest to the fact that Lady Catherine is ever the gracio
us host.”

  “Oh, yes, husband,” said Mary, but Elizabeth noted that Mary’s smile seemed a bit forced, as if Mary had grown a bit weary of Mr. Collins’s worship of his patron.

  “Lady Catherine values our humility as a virtue,” said Collins. “When she arrives, you will see, Cousin Elizabeth.”

  “I’m sure I shall,” said Elizabeth.

  “In fact, I do hope this visit here to Rosings, staying at the parsonage with myself and my wife, will be a truly corrective experience for you, considering the transgressive nature of your own past.”

  Elizabeth smiled flatly. “Oh, I hope so as well. What I shall learn by your fine example, Mr. Collins!”

  Collins beamed at this.

  But Mary narrowed her eyes at her sister, detecting her sarcasm.

  A servant appeared in the door of the drawing room, where they were waiting for the arrival of Lady Catherine. They had been invited to Rosings for dinner, but it was not yet time to be shown to the dining room.

  “Oh,” said the servant. “Has Lady Catherine not come down yet?”

  “Not yet,” said Mr. Collins.

  “Well, wait here,” said the servant, turning to someone outside the door. “I shall go and inform her of your arrival, which no one knew of. I’m sure she will be overjoyed at the surprise.”

  From outside the door, a snort.

  Elizabeth’s body went still. That snort was familiar. She remembered the sound of it when she was being chastised for her lack of dancing ability.

  “Lady Catherine’s guests, Mr. and Mrs. Collins and her sister Miss Bennet are within,” said the servant.

  Elizabeth’s pulse began to pound.

  Two men stepped into the room. One was Colonel Fitzwilliam, who Elizabeth had been introduced to one afternoon when she and Mary encountered him on a walk. The other was Mr. Darcy. He saw her, and his nostrils flared.

  “Truly,” said Mr. Darcy, “we do not need to wait, Richard.”

  The colonel turned to him. “Ah, but do you not wish to meet our aunt’s guests?”

  “I already have been well acquainted with Mrs. Collins,” said Darcy, staring at Elizabeth.