Through a Different Lens

by Riana Everly

  “The house is beautiful,” Elizabeth praised. “It truly is a testimony to the care of its master and the good people who keep it.”

  “Mr. Darcy is the best of masters,” came the response. “He is good and kind and cares most deeply for his tenants. He is a good tempered man too. I have never had a cross word from him in my life, and I have known him ever since he was four years old.”

  “Then you are lucky in having such a master.”

  “Yes, Miss Bennet, I know I am. If I was to go through the world, I could not meet with a better. But I have always observed that they who are good-natured when children are good-natured when they grow up; and he was always the sweetest-tempered, most generous-hearted, boy in the world. One can tell,” confided the older woman, “by how a lad treats his animals. Mr. Darcy has always had the utmost patience with his dogs, no matter what the beasts destroyed of his prized possessions, even as a young lad. That, to me, marks a good soul from a bad. Aye, Miss Bennet, even as a lad!”

  “I would like, very much, to hear about Mr. Darcy as a boy,” she said to the other, not expecting a favourable reply, but Mrs. Reynolds gazed at her benignly and replied, “He was a most unusual child, and I should be happy to talk to you of him, should the master agree, but he was always a generous one, with genuine good intentions, that was the master! Now, here, through this door, you will find the room you seek. Mr. Darcy will show you the other passageways himself after you have had your refreshments.”

  Those few words from the housekeeper were not something Elizabeth had expected to hear about her host. So he had not always shown the cold and unyielding facade that had become his defence against the assaults of society. What a sad thing that he had found the need to erect such a barricade, when the man who cowered behind those stony walls was a man worth knowing. Her heart ached slightly for the torments that he must have experienced that caused him to slowly hide himself from the world, save for those lucky few who had the honour to truly know him.

  Now, as she entered the room completely, she saw that the object of her musings was already there, seated in a wing-backed chair near the farthest window. The light streaming in from outside caught the highlights in his hair and illuminated him from behind, so for a moment, as he stood to greet her, it looked almost as though he glowed.

  “Elizabeth!” He bowed quite properly, despite his increasing familiarity with her name, and led her to a comfortable sofa where she sat to talk in comfort for the few minutes as they awaited the Gardiners.

  “Before your aunt and uncle join us,” he inquired quietly, “I would like very much to know if I may… that is, will you allow me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to your acquaintance during your stay? She is not at home now, but I expect her return tomorrow. If you are discomforted by this, she has already assured me she is happy to extend her visit with her friends.”

  The honour of this request was not lost on Elizabeth. Mr. Darcy had shown her his house in London, invited her to his estate, and now wished to introduce her to his closest relative, his sister. Perhaps, he was after all hoping to renew his addresses to her. She blushed slightly as she happily accepted his request. “I should be most pleased, sir, to know her.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Pemberley

  Miss Darcy, when she was introduced to the visitors the following day, proved to be a lovely young woman, some sixteen years of age. She was tall and well-made, not quite handsome, but with sense and good humour in her face. Where Elizabeth had, from Mr. Wickham’s description, expected her to be very proud, she found instead that Miss Darcy was merely exceedingly shy. Her manners, however, were perfectly unassuming and gentle, and she exhibited a soft awareness of her companions and her surroundings that marked her as a very different sort of creature from her brother.

  Elizabeth liked her immediately.

  “How did you meet my brother?” the young woman asked as they ambled around the pond in the formal garden at the back of the house that morning. Mr. Gardiner had accepted the offer of a horse and guide to explore the estate and his wife was busy at her letters to local acquaintances informing them of her wish to visit, leaving Lizzy and Miss Darcy to wander and speak in privacy. “My brother is an excellent correspondent,” the young lady offered, “and has written of you often, but not once has he told me where you met.”

  “Ah, that is a story that should not be retold!” Elizabeth teased, “For it would not reflect well on him, and I have come to learn that he deserves better than to be judged on first impressions. Let us say it was at a dance, and leave the details for him to complete himself.”

  Miss Darcy had little to say in response to that. Elizabeth detected that the cause was not arrogance, but a deeply felt sense of unworthiness to reply with any semblance of wit. Contemplating her walking companion, Lizzy felt a sense of pity for the girl. She was taller than Elizabeth by a significant margin, and at just sixteen, she must have felt quite out of place amongst her peers. What was considered an advantage in a man was a disadvantage in a lady. Whilst she would no doubt grow into her statuesque proportions and become a rather impressive woman, bearing such height at such a young age must have been extremely uncomfortable; combined with a naturally shy character, her height must have been rather painful. She was also, in many ways, alone. With no parents and a brother very much older than she, there must also have been a desperate need for inclusion and love.

  No wonder George Wickham had enjoyed such success wooing the girl. All he needed to have done was whisper to her of her loveliness, her grace, her importance to him. With the right words and the right gestures, it would be easy to convince an unconfident and awkward young girl that she was in love. If Elizabeth had not before marked Mr. Wickham as the worst sort of manipulative man, meeting Miss Darcy and seeing the deep need in her demeanour to be accepted and cared for, she would now have known the scoundrel for what he was.

  But she could not, would not, speak of Mr. Wickham. Those memories were not to be rekindled by a stranger, no matter how well-meaning. Instead, Elizabeth asked after some of the flowers that bloomed in the carefully tended mazes of floral fecundity, hoping to find a topic upon which the young woman could converse with comfort and ease.

  When they returned to the house, Mr. Darcy was sitting at his table in the salon reading a letter. “Georgiana, Elizabeth,” he greeted them. After seeing to the ladies’ comfort, he informed Elizabeth of the whereabouts of her relations. “Your uncle has returned from his ride and has now gone to explore the ponds, where I have offered him tackle to fish should he desire it. Your aunt joins him in the curricle. She insisted upon driving. I am just sitting down to peruse the latest letter from my cousin.”

  At this Miss Darcy brightened. “Not Anne, surely, or Alfred. Anne writes to me and not to you, so it cannot be from her, and Alfred hardly knows how to put pen to paper. You must mean Richard! Oh, I have not had a letter from him in an age; he writes so seldom. What does he have to say to you, Will?”

  “Oh, mostly of military matters, dear one. He asked after you in town, and I know he wishes to visit as soon as he might.”

  The girl’s eyes brightened at this. She clearly adored her cousin almost as much as her brother. “When, Will? It has been too long since he last was here. Perhaps I shall write to him and ask what his plans are. Now, where is my paper?” She bustled off in search of her materials, leaving Elizabeth alone with her host.

  “Richard writes of more than just military affairs,” he stated before Elizabeth had a chance even to sit. “I thought it best not to mention such matters in front of my sister.”

  “Indeed, sir, I believe that was wise.”

  Mr. Darcy paused. “I see things in her now that I never saw before,” he commented abstractly. “Perhaps they were not there; ‘tis more likely I was not looking and knew not what to see. She feels strongly, does she not? Her face is moveable, and now that I am observing her, I see there is a look about her eyes that I cannot quite identify. It is n
ot sadness, nor is it despair. Have you seen it, Elizabeth? Can you tell me what she feels?”

  “I believe, sir, it is loneliness.”

  “But she was so unhappy at school!” he burst out. “Her current companion is a good woman, but is she not what Georgiana requires? Did I do wrong by removing her from school and from her friends?”

  “No, despite the consequences. But I believe she craves something that a paid companion cannot provide. She wants love and acceptance, true friends and a present family.”

  “I have failed her then.”

  “No you have not. You have other responsibilities, and you cannot be a friend to a girl—your sister—so much younger. But this, I believe, is what led her to be so easily seduced by Mr. Wickham. He offered her, or so she thought, all these things she wished for so dearly.”

  “I have failed her.” He did not speak for some moments, and then changed the topic quite abruptly.

  “Mr. Wickham features large in Richard’s letter. He has seen nothing of any real concern in your sister’s affairs. She is accepted as being loud and a flirt, and is happy to dance with any man who asks her at balls, but she has done nothing to garner true disapprobation. Mr. Wickham, however, has been a regular visitor at the Forsters, and thus Richard is unable to observe as closely as he wishes, for fear of alerting Wickham to our surveillance. He has sent three or four of his men to keep the eye out, on a varying schedule so Wickham should not think they are tailing him. There are no reports that incite alarm.”

  He spoke briskly, as if reading a laundry list. Elizabeth was relieved.

  “Thank you. I have received similar impressions for Jane, although she has no spies to alert her to any trouble that might be brewing.”

  “What is brewing, brother dear?” Georgiana Darcy asked as she walked back into the room, writing paper in hand.

  Mr. Darcy stared at her in alarm. He could not dare confess what Richard’s letter included, and the thought of misleading her or worse—outright lying—seemed not to occur to him at all.

  Elizabeth stepped in to save him. “Tea, Miss Darcy. We were contemplating having some tea, and wondered whether we should ask Mrs. Reynolds to start some brewing now, or if we should rather wait. Would you like a cup?”

  Mr. Darcy’s expression was one of amazement and gratitude. Yes, thought Elizabeth, I understand you. You had no idea how to avoid telling your sister the truth and did not wish to alarm her. Deception is abhorrent to you, but harming your family is more so. You are a complicated, unusual, excellent man.

  Further speculation on Richard, his letter, or the state of the tea, was curtailed by the entrance of the Gardiners into the room. “Excellent pond there, Darcy,” Uncle Gardiner raved. “Those waters look fabulously rich. If your offer of a morning with the fish still stands, I shall be most pleased to accept it.”

  “By all means, the offer stands. I shall join you for part of that time, but I do have business relating to my estate that cannot wait and needs my attention. Shall we depart right after an early breakfast tomorrow?”

  “That would be most excellent, sir, most excellent indeed!”

  By now, Elizabeth had rung the bell and Mr. Darcy requested the previously discussed tea, and the group sat amicably, discussing sights and activities on the estate until the tray was brought in. “These scones, Mr. Darcy….” Mrs. Gardiner’s eyes widened as she took a nibble.

  “Yes, indeed, Madam, the same as the ones we enjoyed in London.”

  “Does your cook travel with you?”

  A very pleased look crept over his face as he nodded, “Indeed, madam. She hails from these parts, and asks to join me when I return to Derbyshire. She thanks me profusely for my magnanimity, but I am the one who ought to thank her, for I then benefit from her cooking.”

  Still curious, Mrs. Gardiner added, “You seem to have inspired much loyalty amongst your staff. The estate seems remarkably well managed, and everybody speaks well of you. Not just the words one expects to hear when asked about the master, but the enthusiasm, the looks of real respect and admiration upon their faces, those speak more loudly than the words.”

  “I try, madam. My father left me this estate in prime condition, and it is my honour and responsibility to maintain it. I do spend much time on its management. I have excellent people working for me, to be sure, but I feel I must be personally involved as well.”

  “But when do you find the time, Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth asked. “My father has little interest in managing his small estate, but he spends many more hours on the books and in conference with farmers and managers than he would wish. Yet you, who are intimately concerned with the well-being of your land and tenants, have been entertaining us in London, and sitting here with us now, drinking tea and enjoying the prospect from your windows.”

  “I work at night, Miss Elizabeth. I am a man with little natural talent for the innate organisation of my affairs, and find many aspects of managing complicated operations difficult, but I have learned to become a master at planning my time and setting out my duties in small sections. My steward helps, of course. He sits with me as we plan what needs to be done. I have then set a schedule, in which I have allotted sufficient time—I hope—to be a gracious host, whilst still including the hours I need to complete my duties to my holdings.”

  “In other words, sir, you are a master at setting a schedule, and are pedantic about adhering to it!” Mr. Gardiner laughed.

  “Guilty as charged sir! Guilty as charged.”

  It was decided over tea that whilst Mr. Gardiner and Mr. Darcy set off for their fishing in the morning, Mrs. Gardiner would be driven in the carriage to Lambton, where she had lived in her youth and where she wished to visit with acquaintances. Elizabeth was invited to join her. To this she agreed, since Miss Darcy quietly and apologetically mentioned her wish to spend the morning at the new pianoforte which had so recently arrived from London.

  But when the morning arrived and the carriage drew up in front of the house, the footman announcing its arrival also brought in a salver of mail, including a missive for Elizabeth from Jane.

  Seeing the letter on the table before Elizabeth, and seeing the look on her niece’s face, Mrs. Gardiner quietly suggested that perhaps Lizzy might wish to stay at Pemberley to read her sister’s correspondence. “It looks thick,” she said with a lilt in her voice. “She must have much information to tell you about Mr. Bingley, perhaps?”

  “Would you mind, Aunt?” Lizzy inquired. “I know I promised to accompany you, but…”

  “But you would be spending the day with old ladies whom you have never met before, listening and trying to remain interested as we talk about people you never knew, when you would rather be here reading your sister’s letter. I would do the same.”

  Reaching over to kiss her aunt on the cheek, Lizzy thanked her gratefully and wished her a marvellous day in the village. Then, taking the letter, her tea, and a small plate of sweets to the sitting room that opened from the breakfast room, she found a chair by the large window and broke the seal.

  As Mrs. Gardiner suggested, Jane’s letter was, indeed, filled with her thoughts and feelings about Mr. Bingley and their courtship. She recounted every visit, every gesture, every word he said. They had held hands as they walked in the wilderness behind the house, he had told her how lovely she was, he had made comments about how much she would love the theatre when they were next in town. Jane expected a proposal any day, and Lizzy agreed with her.

  About the rest of the family, Jane had only a few lines to add.

  Papa misses you very much, I believe, but he is resigned to your absence. He does implore you, though, to make an accounting of the extent and nature of Mr. Darcy’s library. A listing of his catalogue would be welcome too, he says, although he cannot possibly mean that!

  Mama is, well, she is Mama. Without Lydia always bustling in and out, she is, perhaps, slightly calmer than usual, and I have not heard her call for her salts once. But I believe she is bored without you an
d Lyddie to scold, and consequently she expends much of her energy upon poor Mary and Kitty.

  Mary, of course, ignores it all and hides behind her pianoforte or behind a book, but Kitty does not know what to do, and often ends up running out of the room in tears. Oh, Lizzy, I do not miss being seventeen, and should not wish to return to that age for all the world.

  We have heard very little of Lydia. She writes so rarely, we are shocked if a letter arrives at all, but Colonel Forster sends a note to Papa every few days to assure him of Lyddie’s continued good health. From all accounts she is happy and all is well, but, well, he is a man more given to observing the marching prowess of his men than the fripperies of a silly girl with an eye for the officers.

  Please, Lizzy, do not forget to send Papa some news of Mr. Darcy’s books. I promised I should ask you, and I do think he wishes for some astounding news, if not the complete catalogue he requested.

  Your loving sister,

  Jane

  After this page, another letter appeared. It seemed to have been written after the first and included in the envelope. Resolving to discharge her obligation to her father immediately, whilst the house was quiet, Elizabeth set down this second letter to peruse later. It could only be more news about Mr. Bingley. Perhaps he had, at last, proposed, and Jane had written down every word he had uttered for her sister’s perusal. She would read it as soon as her task in the library was complete.