"Please, allow me the pleasure of seeing you to your next destination."
"I—," she stumbled over her words, "It is kind of you to offer, but I cannot allow you . . . you should not be speaking to me."
She was sensible as he could not be. He knew for Georgiana's sake he should not be seen with her, but he could not let her go.
"I am unlikely to meet with anyone of my acquaintance in this part of town."
"You are aware then of my sister—.”
"Yes," he said quickly, the pain in her eyes prompting him to halt her explanation.
He offered his arm.
Her lips parted as if to protest, but then pressed together into a determined line. She lay her hand upon his arm.
"I intend to go home. To Bread Street. Near the river."
It was quite a journey, but Mr. Darcy did not seem deterred by this news.
"I daresay, Miss Elizabeth, London does not suit you as well as the country," he observed as they began to make their way. Introducing such a topic risked bring up painful memories, yet he must speak and this was the only subject that came to his mind.
"You think me so rustic, Mr. Darcy, I cannot enjoy the culture and refined society that Town offers?" In truth, she was barred from one by lack of fortune and the other by her unsavory connections, but to mention these facts would hardly go along with the archness of her tone.
"You cannot bait me with your teasing," replied Mr. Darcy. "Come now, you must own that town life is noisy, harried, and filthy."
"You have forgotten malodorous."
"Indeed."
"Some days I quite loathe it, but it does offer such wonderful opportunities for studying the human condition. My little house is on the third floor and I can look out from the parlor window and observe humanity in all of its forms."
"You live independently?" Darcy asked with evident surprise.
For a time the Bennets had settled with Mrs. Gardiner and her children. Mrs. Bennet's brother Edward Gardiner had preceded Mr. Bennet in death, having injured his leg on the onset of an ill-fated summer tour of the Lakes. The injury had been improperly treated and had grown putrid; death had seemed a kindness after his suffering.
Mrs. Gardiner had invited her sister-in-law and nieces to stay with her partially out of duty and partially as a balm for her own grieving heart. The arrangement was not an agreeable one. The house was too cramped and Mrs. Bennet was as hard to bear in her grief as she was in high spirits.
After few months of discomfort, Mrs. Gardiner helped the Bennets find their own house, a four room flat on Bread Street, and there they had remained ever since.
"Yes—well, with my sisters of course. Excluding . . . ."
"Your youngest, yes."
"Though our portions were modest, combined our income is enough to keep us all quite comfortably."
Darcy did not know what betrayed her cheer as false—her charade was most convincing—but somehow, perhaps from his study of her all those years ago, he knew her words for the falsehood they were.
"It is not the life you were accustomed to."
"No, but it is a life most of the population would be envious of so I can hardly complain."
She could not complain. Not truly. One hundred and sixty pounds per annum ought to be enough. With a little frugalness they should be able to live comfortably with little to worry them. Unfortunately the war had driven the price of food too high and the house—as undesirable the locale and as tiny as it seemed— at seventy guineas a year was too grand for their budget.
Added to these expenses were the outstanding debts to the physician for his visits to Mrs. Bennet. Now, with Jane ill and the physician refusing to come until he was paid, they must rely on the dubious expertise of the local apothecary. Jane had tried every tincture in his shop with little improvement, but at least she could not be said to be getting worse.
In an attempt at economy, Lizzy had let Sara, their much put upon maid-of-all-work, go. The girl had shed tears upon the announcement alarming Lizzy who, in response to her weeping, had asked if she would be able to find another position.
"O course," Sara had earnestly replied, "positions for the likes of me be plentiful as pebbles on the banks of the Thames. But who's gonna take care of you poor little lambs?"
Who indeed?
Lizzy was surprised to find out how little they knew how to do for themselves. Though their mother had many faults, Lizzy had thought she had been thorough in the domestic education of her daughters. Regrettably she had been preparing them for lives as the mistresses of households with several servants. They had never been taught to scrub their own floors.
Her younger sisters did not comprehend the direness of their situation.
Kitty would often ask, "Do we not have four thousand pounds?"
In her mind paying their mother's debts and purchasing new gowns would be so slight an expense when compared that fortune. No amount of explaining could make her understand if they drew from the principle it would reduce the interest they would have to live on for the rest of their lives.
Mary was not much better. When the Bennets had been evicted from Longbourn they had been obliged to leave her old pianoforte; An injustice for which she would never forgive Mr. Collins. If she had control of their funds she would have already bought a new pianoforte. Unluckily for her, Lizzy was responsible for the budgeting and would not give into her pouting. Mary thought her older sister's miserliness unreasonable, after all she was the only employed member of the household—making the hefty sum of three shillings a week teaching at a charity school— and she had only ever asked for this one indulgence.
Lizzy thought it fortunate that Mary was not responsible for teaching her pupils sums as she apparently did not possess skill enough to note at her current salary it would take five years for her to save enough for a new pianoforte.
Her two younger sisters thought her the worst kind of tyrant, but Lizzy continued scrimping regardless of their resentment. Lack of new pianofortes and gowns was the least of their complaints. They ate no beef, very little butter, and drank inferior tea.
No, indeed, it was not the life she had been accustomed to.
"The weather has turned a bit chilly again, but I think it will make for a fine spring," Darcy said, interrupting her ruminations.
Lizzy simply nodded in reply.
"It is your turn to say something now, Miss Elizabeth. I remarked on the weather, perhaps you might observe that the walkways are less covered in grime than they usually are this time of year. You see, I still remember the lesson you gave me during Bingley's ball at Netherfield."
"I think you are teasing me."
"That is a conjecture with some merit."
His comment was rewarded with a smile. He felt it might have been the accomplishment of his life to make her smile when she had looked so wretched only moments before.
Their conversation took flight from there. They spoke of Mr. Bingley, of the country sights they missed, and of the happier times of their youth.
Both were disappointed when they found themselves at her door.
"If I were to walk in that same park tomorrow would I see you?" Mr. Darcy asked.
Lizzy do not often allow herself the luxury of long walks, spending her time instead tending to Jane or completing the never ending list of household chores. Generally she only walked to the park once a week to meet with Mr. Rowe, a plan that had been engineered by her Aunt Gardiner to forward the match.
She should not see Mr. Darcy again, but she could not make herself tell him so. Instead she said, "It must be terribly out of your way. There must be much lovelier walks to take nearer to your home."
More convenient—certainly, but lovelier? No, not when that walk included seeing her. But he was too much a coward to say anything so boldly flirtatious.
"That park has the advantage of being new to me. All my walk will want for is company."
"Well, sir, perhaps if you find yourself walking there at ten o'clock t
omorrow morning you might have the company you wish."
Chapter Three
If ever there was an excuse to drink liberally, Darcy thought this particular occasion warranted it. He must give up Elizabeth Bennet. Again.
He had seen her thrice in the span of a week and was in danger of being as in love with her as he had been all those years before. Even more in love. Time and tragedy had not diminished her many allurements: her fine eyes only sparkled brighter, her good humor was ever present, and her teasing wit was still as sharp as it was charming. Perhaps most impressive of all was that the unfairness of life had not turned her bitter as it did most people. As it had him.
Darcy had caught a glimpse of the light and now he clung to it, unable to return to the grayness that had permeated his life of late. But he must put an end to this madness. It should have ended with that first meeting, nay, he ought not to have ever approached her to begin with.
The simplest way to end their association would be to neglect to appear the day after next when they had arranged their next meeting. No, arranged was too formal a description. He had hinted that he wished to see her and she had hinted he might happen upon her if he were to walk that same churchyard stretch that was now so familiar to them both at a certain hour of the morning two days hence.
They never spoke of definites; they both had too much propriety to arrange an assignation.
Perhaps it would be better if he failed to appear. Any explanation for ending their acquaintance could only bring her pain. Yet he felt he owed her some explanation. To leave off without word would imply their connection was so slight it could be easily forgotten.
Our connection is slight, he reminded himself. Yet he was not convinced. He felt deeply for her and, though he knew her feelings did not equal his own, he believed she was beginning to feel something for him as well.
It is all for naught. I shall never see her again. Any affection she holds for me will turn to disgust when she realizes I have disappointed her, Darcy thought. Then he poured himself another glass of port.
At some point during the dark of the night when he long since should have gone to bed—befuddled with drink and given over to a maudlin mood, he allowed his mind to wander over a notion his scruples had caused him to push away anytime such wickedness entered his thoughts. Now the depraved thought held him fast.
He could not marry her.
That did not mean he could not have her.
A knock came at the door at half ten just as Lizzy and Kitty were about to leave for the market. Lizzy answered, quite luckily, as she would not have wanted one of her sisters to see the man who was standing on the other side of the door. He was a stranger to her, and yet she knew instantly who had sent him. The exquisite simplicity of his dress was much like that of his master. More than likely, Lizzy thought, his apparel had once belonged to Mr. Darcy, as she supposed valets, like lady’s maids, received the cast-offs of their employers.
The man opened his mouth as if to speak but then, with a weary glance behind Lizzy, closed it. Reaching into his jacket, he produced a letter which he offered to Lizzy. Lizzy reached out and took it, surprised by how her hand shook as she grasped the paper, and drew it towards herself.
"I will await your reply, madam. Just across the street," he said in a whisper, then he turned and disappeared down the stairs.
"Who was at the door?" Kitty demanded when Lizzy returned to the parlor.
"A messenger."
"You got a letter!" Kitty exclaimed as if it was the most extraordinary of occurrences. "It's from your secret beau, isn't it?"
"I applaud your imagination. I assure you this is not a billet-doux—just a bill."
Even Kitty could recognize the incongruity of her words. Never before had witnessed her sister press a bill over her heart.
"I must deal with this now. Mary, will you please go with Kitty in my stead?"
"But I'm working on my curriculum."
"Please."
Mary huffed but did as she was asked, readying herself with obvious annoyance. Kitty, ever one to be influenced by the moods and opinions of others, was in a piqued state as well by the time the pair headed out to the market.
With an exasperated sigh Lizzy lowered herself into the desk chair Mary had recently vacated.
Jane, who had been silently watching the events from across the room, now voiced her concern. "Lizzy, is something wrong?"
"No."
"Is it another bill?"
"No."
Seeing that Lizzy wanted privacy, Jane went back to her reading without even a prying glance. Lizzy gave a silent prayer of thanks for her one sensible sister.
She placed the letter opener under the wax seal then halted. He is going to tell me goodbye, she thought. She didn't want to read his apologies, though she understood perfectly. Friendship between them was impossible; this last week had been foolish on both of their parts.
But if it is simply a farewell, why would he ask his man to wait for a reply?
He was merely rescheduling their next meeting, she decided. That she could face. She broke the seal.
She recognized Mr. Darcy's close, even hand from the other letter he had written her, a letter she still kept. The salutation was most promising, "Dearest Elizabeth," it read. She had never given him leave to address her so familiarly, but her heart fluttered all the same.
No, no, she thought, tamping down that traitor within her breast. Her heart had not fluttered. It was quite steady. She hadn't turned so silly that a simple endearment could give her palpitations.
She read on. Within the first three lines Mr. Darcy had again given that traitorous organ cause to rebel against her good sense. He confessed his undying admiration so poetically Lizzy wondered at his sobriety—not because the letter was lacking in proper form, rather she knew Mr. Darcy to be level-headed even when he expressed sentiment.
He was not one to let emotion rule him, yet now he conveyed his feelings without caution. The intensity of his words was almost alarming and when Lizzy reached the bottom of the first page she paused to calm herself.
"I must have you," were the final words on the page. Her heart was fluttering. She could not deny it.
He's mad. As flattering as his words might be, I am not certain I want to marry a mad person. She almost laughed aloud at her thoughts. Of course she wanted to marry him. She did not love him. No, not yet, but she knew now she could love him. These past few days had shown her that he was precisely the man for her; their tastes and temperaments complimented so well. She had come to revere the quickness of his mind, his droll observations, and how he could express himself almost completely through his eyes.
Joy flooded through her—along with relief. She had not wished to marry Mr. Rowe, but had been willing to do it in order to assure greater stability in her sisters' lives. And now . . . now she could almost laugh her heart felt so light.
However, she still felt some trepidation at continuing to read. She had not forgotten his last proposal. Hopefully he would not feel the need to enumerate all the reasons she was unsuitable; she was already quite aware of them all. Gathering her courage, she continued to the next page.
Her heart stopped completely and then restarted, hammering to life as anger thrummed through her veins.
Horrible man.
How could she have been so foolish? Of course he did not wish to marry her. She should have known it from the first. To have addressed her so freely—to have written to her at all. This breach of propriety should have immediately indicated to her how little he cared for her reputation. I have no reputation, she reminded herself. Which was precisely why he thought he could make her such an insulting offer.
Mistress. Not wife.
Why did she suddenly feel so broken? She did not love him. His opinion of her did not matter at all.
She opened the top drawer of the writing desk and produced a sheet of paper. Readying her pen, she began to furiously write her reply. Just as she arrived at the end of the page,
the tip of her pen snapped under the violence of her words.
She looked over her work and found half the page had been smudged by her silent, wrathful tears. Crumpling the paper, Lizzy tried to calm herself. Once she had mustered a facade of serenity, she walked over to the fire and tossed her failed reply into the flames.
Jane raised her eyes from her book, the inquisitive look on her face revealing to Lizzy that she had not hid her emotions as well as she had thought. Lizzy waved her sister's concern away. Jane nodded, trusting she would tell her when she was ready.
Upon returning to the desk, Lizzy took out another sheet of paper. She needed to find the correct words. Something concise and biting. Words that would hurt him—destroy him—as his words had her.
She mended her pen as she thought. A quarter of an hour passed—a half— an hour in full. The page remained blank. Soon Kitty and Mary would return and then soon after that she would need to be on her way to meet with Mr. Rowe and give him her answer. At least now she knew what she would say to him—knew that she could give him an answer without regret. She had Mr. Darcy to thank for that confidence, she supposed.
Picking up her pen, she wrote upon the blank page, her words vengeful slashes. Lizzy studied her work. Yes, this is what needs to be said, she thought. Concise, yet devastating.
Darcy was going to dismiss Simon. Or throttle him. He had awoken late in the morning, his throbbing head and his haggard face in desperate need of a shave, only to be told that his valet had left at the earliest decent hour to deliver a most sensitive correspondence upon his own orders.
He knew immediately what letter Simon must be carrying. Why his valet would ever follow an order that was made when his master was obviously inebriated Darcy could not guess, but he did know with certainty he would never see Elizabeth again.
Unless she is so upset with me she feels the need to yell at me in person, he thought with dread.
In the hour that had passed since he woke he had considered writing an apology, but he knew there could be no apology. Not for an insult such as this.
The Ruin of Elizabeth Bennet: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Page 2
