The Ruin of Elizabeth Bennet: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

by Darcie Rochester

  He tried to convince himself that Elizabeth hating him would make things easier. Perhaps it would, but knowing that she hated him would cause an ache in his heart—he felt it even now.

  Someone rapped twice upon the door of his study and then entered without invitation. Simon.

  Darcy felt ill. He did not want to read the letter his valet offered him, but he took it all the same. Elizabeth must be given the opportunity for reproach; he owed her that much.

  Once his valet had left, he opened the letter. He was promptly taken aback. Across the center of the page in a bold, angry hand were two words, "I accept."

  Chapter Four

  Mr. Darcy sat upon the bench where they usually met, head bowed and hands clasped tensely in his lap. His usual proud posture was absent today, replaced by slumped shoulders and an overall appearance of dejection.

  The morning sun cast him in glorious light, bringing out the auburn undertones of his dark hair. He was beautiful. If she had any artistic skill, Lizzy was certain she would be longing to paint such an excellent muse. His presently careworn expression would only add to the challenge. A study in penitence.

  His obvious remorse only served to incense her further. What purpose could his guilt possibly serve now? Even if he told her today he had changed his mind—even if he got down on his knees and begged her forgiveness, he could never take back the hurt he had caused her—the ugly truths he had forced her to face about herself.

  Lizzy swallowed back her rage. She was determined to meet him with dignity, or as much dignity as one could possibly have in such a situation.

  Mr. Darcy rose as soon has he noticed her approach.

  "Miss Elizabeth—," he began but whatever else he would have said was immediately stifled, silenced by the harsh glare she threw at him.

  She lowered herself upon the bench leaving ample space between them. Determined not look at him, she fixed her gaze upon the tree before her.

  The awkwardness was palpable. Darcy stared at her knowing he must be the one to drive the conversation, yet was unable to form the words he wished to say. He should beg her forgiveness— try to explain the madness that had come over him, but she had accepted his offer and some wicked part of him would not permit his better judgment to stop this.

  Finally he found his voice. "Do you still . . . have you reconsidered?"

  "I have not."

  Of course she had reconsidered. Last night had been spent in a state of sleepless anxiety as she had gone back and forth upon her decision a thousand times at least. To do what he had asked of her would compromise her morals completely. Nonetheless, it seemed the choice least likely to harm anyone beyond herself.

  The relief she had felt upon believing Mr. Darcy intended to ask for her hand had shown her she could not accept Mr. Rowe. In time she might have grown to resent his lack of gentility, his disinterest in literature. She already knew she could not love him. Respect him certainly, but never love.

  However, for a moment she had believed she could love the man sitting next to her. Lizzy sneaked a glance at him now only to find his eyes on her he; she turned away again. If I could be so deceived in him, she thought, can my judgment truly be trusted?

  As faulted as her judgment might be, it was all she had to guide her in this matter. She had made her choice, now she must abide by it.

  "You were vague on the particulars of payment in your letter, I think that must be discussed first."

  Mr. Darcy's brows arched with obvious surprise.

  "Is that not what mistresses do?"

  He flinched as if the word mistress pained him. Lizzy could not comprehend him. He was apparently high-minded enough to feel shame at his behavior, but not enough to retract his disgusting offer.

  "I think not. The discussion of money is considered vulgar."

  "As is fornication."

  Lizzy allowed herself to chuckle at his shocked expression. Mr. Darcy looked at her sternly. This time she did not let fear make her look away, holding his gaze with defiance.

  "What would you consider appropriate compensation?"

  "Two thousand pounds."

  She had decided on the sum most carefully. Though additional funds could not bring back respectability to herself and her sisters, it could at least ensure they lived out the rest of their relative exile in a situation more comparable to the comfort of their early lives.

  Their situation was not quite desperate. No matter the angle she looked at it, Lizzy always concluded that this step towards depravity was not vital. Jane's continued illness worried her, but if her elder sister did suddenly worsen, Lizzy could draw from their inheritance. Such an action would leave them with less to live upon it was true, yet even then they would hardly be on the streets begging for coin.

  But the pleasures of life had been greatly diminished by their decline in fortune. Unlike Mary and Kitty, Lizzy could tell the difference between want and need, but she could not deny that she missed the comforts of their old life too. She missed books and tea cakes and having servants. She missed the peace of mind.

  They had everything they needed now, but with every year money seemed to have less value. If things continued as they had, they would grow older and older and closer and closer to poverty. The interest on two thousand pounds would give them greater security.

  A hysterical laugh escaped her lips. "I'm haggling over my virtue in a churchyard."

  "Haggling is unnecessary. You will have the two thousand pounds."

  The ease with which he had agreed surprised her. Perhaps all mistresses were so expensive—Lydia had certainly crowed about her gains—but from what little Lizzy knew of the profession it seemed the rewards of a mistress were often indefinite— a gift of jewelry here and there and of course housing during the term of their employment. Rather foolish, she thought, to sell something so precious as one's respectability for an inexact sum.

  "So easily you agree to such steep demands."

  This time it was Mr. Darcy who laughed, the sound bitter. "I have money."

  He had wealth beyond the imaginings of most people: Pemberley and all of its associated incomes, Rosings, several other smaller holdings, not to mention investments in industry and the funds. Oh, but what had it cost him.

  "It must be pleasant, the freedom to purchase anything one desires," Lizzy said, her tone more acerbic than she had intended.

  "Yes, such freedom."

  Mr. Darcy's eyes flashed, and for a moment Lizzy glimpsed within them pure disdain. She could not help but wonder at it. Had her acceptance of his proposal disappointed him? Had she proved herself not to be the virtuous woman he had loved? Or perhaps he blamed her for leading him to sin?

  Lizzy had grown accustomed to judgmental gazes, but until now she had never felt she deserved them. He certainly didn't have the right to look at her like that.

  Nevertheless, the gravity of what she was doing struck her now.

  It was her intention to demand discretion. She was determined not to bring further shame to her sisters. If things went to her plans no one beyond the two of them ever need know of their immorality. But she would know. Would she be able to live with the guilt?

  Tears formed in her eyes. Mr. Darcy instinctively reached out to her, but she flinched away.

  "No, you cannot touch me. You haven't paid for me yet."

  Whereas her earlier taunts had only served to anger him, the obvious distress her voice betrayed now broke down his wicked resolution. "Elizabeth, forgive me, I should never have—"

  "No, you shouldn't have. But you did. There is no time for guilt now. You cannot take it back. I need security for my sisters and you need to conquer this unfortunate obsession you have with me."

  She had regained some of her composure; she was back to sneering at him.

  "I cannot offer you marriage. Surely you must see that."

  "I do," Lizzy said loudly attracting the attention of two matronly women who were walking the perimeter of the park.

  "I do," she repeated
in a whisper.

  "Though I realize you will find it difficult to believe, the sentiment I expressed in that letter was genuine. I do lo—"

  "No, do not tell me that you love me. I will not hear it," Lizzy paused, struggling to keep her voice low.

  Exhaling deeply she continued, "You want to lie with me. You do not need to make excuses or tell me pretty lies. Yours is a reasonable proposal, really. Why endure a lifetime of marriage for a passing fancy? Once you have tired of me, we will both be free to go our separate ways and I will have enough funds to ensure my survival and that of my sisters. Not a respectable arrangement perhaps, but beneficial to both parties which is more that can be said for most marriages."

  Yes, a sensible plan indeed, she thought. Not honorable. Not moral. But no one could find fault with the practicality of it.

  Mr. Darcy looked primed to speak again. Lizzy could tell by the repentance in his eyes it would be another contrite speech, not at all conducive to what they had come to discuss.

  "No more of your pretty words, Mr. Darcy, I have resigned myself to this plan. Unless you mean to retract your offer, I believe we have other matters to discuss."

  Mr. Darcy did not retract and so they passed another uncomfortable half hour there, haltingly laying out the particulars of their future sin.

  Chapter Five

  "I suppose my aunt is waiting on the other side of that door?" Darcy asked as his valet finished tying his cravat.

  This evening had been planned most carefully to foil his aunt. He had sent his apologies to Lady Bennington, crying off attendance at her dinner party at the last possible moment—very rude of him—in hopes of freeing himself from Lady Catherine's constant supervision. She had taken to staying at Darcy House, though she had her own house in Town, in order to be better situated for haunting him.

  "I believe so. Her ladyship was there when I entered and she did seem quite determined," Simon replied, scarcely able to keep a smirk off his face.

  Darcy groaned. Despite his provisions he would still have to deal with Lady Catherine. "She has become proficient at cornering me. If I but had a secret door by which to escape."

  "There is the window, sir, but it is a fair way down should you slip."

  "Valet and jester you shall have to add that to your resume—it may make up for your lack of character when I sack you."

  Darcy had been making lighthearted threats to dismiss Simon since the valet had taken that letter to Elizabeth on sotted command.

  Simon chuckled. "I believe my error of judgment has turned out to your benefit."

  "That has yet to be seen."

  "It will be no fault of mine if she is not pleased with you after tonight."

  Darcy looked at the man sharply. He had not told him who he was going to visit tonight.

  "Never fear—your secrets are not the subject of servants' gossip. I would not be so indiscreet and as far as I know no one else is aware of your affair."

  It had been difficult for Simon to keep such an exciting tidbit to himself. His very proper master had never had any naughty secrets before. But he had resisted the urge to gossip. He'd let not one words slip, not even to Marie, Miss Darcy's new lady's maid, whom he was sweet on. His master's general leniency would not extend to any matter involving Miss Elizabeth Bennet of that Simon was certain.

  "How did you know then?" Darcy asked.

  "My assertion was only a guess. I've never seen you primp so, sir, therefore I must assume there is a lady you wish to impress. Unless you've decided to become a dandy, in which case you will need a new wardrobe complete." Simon laughed at his own joke.

  Darcy rolled his eyes, but grinned despite himself. "No, the black," he said as Simon produced a dark red coat from the wardrobe.

  The valet huffed in protest, but brought out a black coat in place of the red. Simon would have him dress more ostentatiously. Darcy ignored his suggestions nearly every time.

  Darcy wondered what Elizabeth would make of his easy banter with Simon. Did she still think him too proud to be teased? He had only just begun to get comfortable enough around her to show his true self. Now any liking she might have started to feel for him had been destroyed by the letter.

  Yet he could not bring himself to regret it. At least not entirely. Without it he would have eventually had to end their acquaintance.

  Making her your mistress certainly won't make her love you, a voice of reason reminded.

  He knew this to be true but he still had a mad hope that she might come to love him. To what end? His conscience questioned him. Darcy pushed that inconvenient thought from his mind; he was dressed.

  "Am I presentable?"

  "I have done all I can," Simon replied with a dramatic sigh.

  "Now to get past the dragon."

  "It's the only way to get to the fair maiden, I fear." With much bawdy insinuation Simon added, "Have a very good night, sir."

  His aunt was upon him before he had taken a step outside his room.

  "I would know where you are going," Lady Catherine demanded.

  "Out."

  She bristled at his terse reply. "You are going to see a woman," she declared.

  One might admire her perspicacity if one did not know how often she made this particular accusation. It was a favorite of hers. Sometimes she accused him of gambling, which he only did when he was forced to at card parties and never for high stakes. Other times she charged him of drinking to excess, which—despite recent evidence to the contrary—he did not often engage in. Most often, however, she accused him of seeing a woman. Never before tonight had she been correct.

  It was as if she wanted him to fall into debauchery. Perhaps she thought dissipation was the proper way for a gentleman to express his grief. Or perhaps she just needed something new to be hysterical over now she no longer had Anne's never-ending illnesses to fixate on.

  "I have things you will hear," she called out as Darcy strode past her. She began to follow him down the stairs with an alacrity he did not think her capable of.

  "Tomorrow, perhaps," he replied shortly. All pretense civility had long ago abated between them.

  "Fitzwilliam Darcy you will come back here at once."

  He did not heed her.

  "You are dishonoring my daughter's memory!"

  That declaration caused him to halt. He turned so quickly she nearly ran into him. With a dry laugh he said, "I think she did that quite well on her own, Aunt."

  He should not have spoken so cruelly. Just as he should not relish his aunt's reddening visage.

  Her mouth twisted in anger, but she did not let him distract her from her rant. "I have been corresponding with your housekeeper. She has told me all about this new nurse you have hired for Lewis and I cannot say I like her."

  Darcy sighed. As usual she was fabricating nonsense for the purpose of haranguing him. He and Georgiana had been most careful in choosing a new nurse for the child after the previous had suddenly left her post. Mrs. Reynolds, Pemberley's housekeeper, had nothing but praise for Mrs. Butner.

  When he told his aunt this she said, "I knew I could not trust you to care for him. I knew you would not take me seriously."

  "Why do you not return to Rosings and have Lewis sent to you there? I will agree to such a plan readily. Then you might be assured that he is being cared for to your satisfaction."

  Lady Catherine sputtered. She did not want the boy. She blamed the poor babe for the death of her daughter.

  Darcy knew where the blame should lie. If he had but given his wife an audience—allowed her to make her explanations—she never would have done something so foolhardy. No matter how angry he had been with Anne, no matter the embarrassment she had attached to his name, he had never wished for her to die.

  Though they had not been close she had been his cousin, as family he owed her better than he had given her. He and Richard had discussed doing something for her time and time again, but had never put plans to action. It was almost understandable that she would find an es
cape any way she could.

  He had left her to molder with Aunt Catherine and now he was offering to consign her son to the same fate. However he knew his aunt would never take Lewis. The boy was two years old and not once had she gone to Pemberley to see him.

  Lady Catherine found her voice. "He is your s—heir," she said, correcting herself before she could say the word that would incite his wrath. Even she was frightened enough of Darcy's anger that she did not call Lewis his son. "His care is your responsibility."

  "Whatever his relation to me, he is your grandson. I will not foist him off on you, however, if you do not want him. I only ask that you do not harass me in the guise of concern for his care. I take the care of my dependents seriously and it is an insult for you to suggest otherwise. If Mrs. Butner were neglecting Lewis in any way Mrs. Reynolds would make sure I was the first to know."

  Darcy turned and continued down the stairs.

  "We are not done here. I have other grievances," she bellowed.

  "I would expect nothing less," Darcy murmured, but did not stop again.

  Though she irritated him, he understood why she acted the as she did. Anne had been the pride of her life. She wanted to make sure her daughter was not forgotten.

  Lady Catherine had tried the patience of all her relation so much none of them now would give her much consideration. Which only made her worse. Her grandson, the one person who was likely to love her unconditionally, she resented for a crime he did not commit. Yet she had enough loyalty to Anne's memory she doggedly protected Lewis's interest.

  Darcy knew she feared he would marry again, produce a true heir, and disinherit Lewis completely. He should assure her that Lewis would be left Rosings, but his resentment of her did not allow him to grant her that peace of mind. His resentment was perhaps not even deserved, as he had no proof that she had had any prior knowledge of Anne's deception.

  He knew he was behaving just as wrongly as his aunt, but he could not be the first to make concessions, not when she acted as she did now—not when her daughter had been the cause of so much grief and bitterness in his life.