The Ruin of Elizabeth Bennet: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

by Darcie Rochester

  "Of course," she replied sounding almost annoyed. She did not understand why they were talking about Mr. Bingley when she had so many important questions she needed answers to. Never mind she had yet to put a single question to words.

  Mr. Mumford meanwhile was confused by her nonchalance. She was acting as if she received offers of marriage from obviously wealthy gentlemen who went about town in luxuriant chaise and fours every day. Perhaps she did. She was certainly worthy of such attentions. But the circumstances of her life would negate her worthiness in the eyes of most gentlemen.

  And she had been crying. Why had she been crying?

  "You were sent by Mrs. Peyton."

  He had been so caught up in his own ponderations he had not heard her at all. "Pardon?"

  "Initially my sister's employer Mrs. Peyton asked you to look after my health."

  Mr. Mumford stared at her as if she had suddenly started speaking in some alien tongue.

  "There is no Mrs. Peyton, is there?" Her voice was heavy. She knew the answer.

  "There is no Mrs. Peyton," he said carefully, still unsure of what they were discussing, "At least there is no Mrs. Peyton with whom I am acquainted."

  "It is your patron, Mr. Darcy."

  When Mr. Mumford had told her the man who funded the charity he worked for was none other than Mr. Darcy she had thought it remarkable that they should share an acquaintance. Now she realized it was not remarkable at all. Mr. Darcy was the reason for their acquaintance.

  "Mr. Darcy is Lizzy's—he is her—protector." Protector should not be the word for it, he had done the opposite of protecting her.

  "You did not know," Mr. Mumford said, realization finally dawning. Jane always talked fondly of the absent Lizzy, but never mentioned her whereabouts or current position. He had assumed she knew and simply did not wish to dwell on the sordid.

  Though Mr. Darcy had never explicitly explained "Mrs. Smith's" relationship to himself, Mr. Mumford had understood the nature of the arrangement upon meeting the lady. Her shame coupled with Darcy's guilt told the story well enough.

  While it had mildly surprised him to learn Darcy had taken a mistress as he had always seemed to possess—like his father before him—a rigid, almost puritanical sense of morality, he had not found the situation objectionable at first. Wealthy men often had mistresses; he had neither the time nor inclination to pass judgment on them. However as his admiration of Miss Bennet had developed, he could not help but resent his patron for having sullied her beloved sister.

  Tears formed in Miss Bennet's eyes bringing that resentment to the forefront of his mind.

  "I'm sorry for how you have learned of this. If I had known of your ignorance I would not have put it so bluntly," he said.

  Jane, however, did not mark him, she was too caught up in her own reproachful thoughts. "Oh, Lizzy why would you do such a thing?"

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Those who are miserable ought to never be subjected to happy couples. There could be nothing so torturous. Even contentedly single people sometimes found the presence of the blissfully paired a little grating.

  Lady Celia was firmly in the miserable camp and Miss Madigan and Colonel Fitzwilliam were stupendously grating. They had their own private jests and their little looks and their horrid, horrid habit of forgetting there was anyone else in the room whilst conversing.

  Celia had tried to distract Richard more than once, it was not artifice, he could really forget she was in the room just because he was talking to that ugly little creature. That he could have gotten over her so quickly was incredible enough, that she should be replaced with Tessa Madigan was unthinkable.

  As an awful afternoon of lawn games—she had been paired with Captain Brooks (a lowly captain for heaven's sake!) and even with a bonnet she was sure had gotten a freckle on her nose—progressed into a dreadful evening of charades—she blamed her defeat solidly on Miss Tulley who she suspected had made intentionally absurd guesses—Lady Celia had become terrifyingly certain she was in love with Richard Fitzwilliam.

  This new knowledge, more than any other reason she had thought of before, made her sure she had made the correct choice by refusing his offer of marriage. Love and marriage did not mix; her parents had taught her that well enough.

  She did not know the precise moment Lord and Lady Bennington had started hating each other, but she did know it was all her fault. Something had gone horribly wrong at her birth, leaving Lady Bennington unable to bear anymore children. It had taken several fruitless years for him the accept the truth, but once Lord Bennington realized there would be no son to give the title to, resentment began to fester.

  The wife he had once loved was suddenly disgusting to him and his daughter—he had never wanted a daughter in the first place, a daughter whose life had cost him his legacy was intolerable. The only thing the marquess and marchioness were united in was their general dislike of her, though they each expressed it differently. Her father ignored her completely. Her mother picked and picked at her, gleeful at whatever injury she could inflict upon the child who had ruined her happiness.

  Yes, Lady Celia knew well that love had no place in marriage, it could only lead to disappointment. That did not mean, however, she enjoyed watching Richard fall in love with someone else. Miss Madigan already had one hundred thousand pounds, an estate in Yorkshire, and a father who loved her—why should she have Richard as well?

  Unfortunately she could think of nothing to put a stop to it. Oh, she had done plenty of petty needling—Miss Madigan was laughably easy to needle—but she could do no lasting damage. And that was what she wanted most to do. She needed to punish Richard for making her love him, for daring to love another.

  Mr. Darcy was the perfect tool for her revenge. Any harm she could cause him would hurt Richard, and she still owed Darcy for his disregard of her.

  He was also an easy target. An honorable man would always do what was expected of him, and when a marquess's virtuous daughter was found in bed with him, marriage was expected. And if he should be reluctant to fulfill that expectation the marquess with said compromised daughter would make the consequences most clear. Her father might not like her, but an insult to her was an insult to his pride.

  Lady Celia was a sad, rotten creature who was well aware she was a sad, rotten creature as such people very often are. She had tried goodness, it never filled the hole in her soul. But envy—she lived off of the envy of others. It was fortunately easy to come by when one was as beautiful as she was.

  Yet she knew it would all soon change. She had pushed it too far, now she was three and twenty and people were beginning to make remarks. She was beautiful, had a considerable dowry, and all the appearance of being the ideal demure female. Why was she not wed? "There must be something wrong with her," would be the hateful consensus of the ton.

  If she became Mr. Darcy's wife she would be the envy of everyone and her life would be secure. He was wealthy, from a good family, very handsome and far too tight-laced to flaunt his indiscretions—really the best any lady could ask for. And there was no risk in falling in love with a man like him, so staid and unimaginative. They could live their lives in perfect indifference.

  Yes, to be Mrs. Darcy would be ideal indeed. All she needed to do now was wait until the house was asleep to put her plan into action.

  Mrs. Copeland thought this vigil a little ridiculous, but endeavored to bite her tongue. Miss Tulley was adamant that they should keep watch on Lady Celia and as Miss Tulley was so rarely adamant about anything it seemed prudent to let her have her way.

  From her place on the bed she glanced across the room to where the lady sat. To the untrained eye Miss Tulley would have appeared to be enthralled with the sketch she was making, but Mrs. Copeland knew this was not the case. When Emma was truly concentrating she got an adorable little wrinkle in between her brows. The wrinkle was absent.

  Unable to hold her opinion any longer, Mrs. Copeland said, "He will have locked his door, Emma."
<
br />   Miss Tulley did not look up from her work. "Of course he locked his door," she replied calmly.

  "If we stay up so late, we will sleep in and miss the morning ride, I thought you wanted to go," Mrs. Copeland said, trying a new tactic.

  Emma was not going to be dissuaded. Her pencil continued its ceaseless dance, moving over the paper in long lethargic strokes. She said, "I do, but I sincerely doubt anyone will be ready to set out before noon—morning ride or not. You heard the state the gentlemen were in."

  The men had retired a short while ago and though their guest chambers were in the opposite wing their entrance had been noted in the ladies' wing, for someone had mistakenly started down the wrong corridor and then knocked a decorative vase from its pedestal and another someone had come and dragged the first someone off with much mockery and then both of those someone's had somehow managed to fall over causing several other someones to laugh hysterically: All of this nonsense indicating the over-imbibement of something Dionysus would have probably thought too potent.

  "There is no reason to think she will attempt such a foolish thing anyway."

  "You said yourself she will go after Mr. Darcy."

  "That was before she spent the evening staring at Colonel Fitzwilliam. I would think her more likely to try some trickery on him than Mr. Darcy."

  "No one would ever believe the Colonel was engaging in late night assignations with her. He is obviously in love with Miss Madigan. Besides Lady Celia doesn't want to marry him or she would have accepted when he asked."

  "I don't believe he did ask her. Why would he? I am sure that was a rumor. Probably started by Lady Celia herself to—to I have no idea. I don't understand people at all," Mrs. Copeland said theatrically throwing her hands up in frustration.

  "You do, you just wish you didn't."

  Mrs. Copeland held her silence a full minute this time before attempting another attack, this one direct. "You cannot wait up all night, Emma," she said with undisguised exasperation.

  "I can if I must, but I do not think it will come to that. I think she will act very soon. We ought to be quiet, our whispering is probably what is keeping her. Her room is just down the hall."

  Sensing Mrs. Copeland's continued agitation she added, "I can do something about this so I must." Her companion's expression instantly softened.

  "I understand," said Mrs. Copeland.

  Mrs. Copeland knew Miss Tulley's passionate interest in Mr. Darcy's plight had far more to do with her guilt at her sister's inevitable marriage to a scoundrel than any particular concern for Mr. Darcy. Charlotte Tulley was beyond saving. The poor girl had accepted the poisonous notion of a woman's duty which Society had placed upon her and was convinced she must sacrifice her own happiness for the sake of her family.

  If she were fortunate the profligate Lord Bancroft would be like any other man whose principle object in marriage was to obtain a decorative wife to provide him an heir, once she bore him the requisite number of children he would hide her away in the country where she would be forced to tolerate her husband's presence only once or twice a year. If she weren't fortunate . . . Mrs. Copeland was all too knowledgeable about the fate of maritally unfortunate ladies, she had been one herself and had the scars to show for it.

  Emma felt she had failed her younger sister by not bearing the burden of marrying well. Lack of beauty and wealth greatly hindered her chances of snagging a husband, true. But she had not tried at all. In fact she had at times done the opposite of trying.

  It did not matter. Lottie was beautiful. Lottie was sweet. Lottie was young. Lottie was the best equipped to make the kind of marriage the family needed. That Lottie was impossibly in love with Mr. Norman, the curate was unfortunate, yes. But it was not as if he would ever ask for her hand. Emma knew this for a fact because she had done her best to persuade him to do just that. He would not hear it. Miss Charlotte deserved better than a man of no family whose prospects of ever being more than a curate were dim.

  So Emma had relented. She let the responsibility fall to her sister never imagining someone like Lord Bancroft would be Lottie's suitor. There had been other suitors. There had been a dozen others. Yet Charlotte encouraged him because he was the wealthiest and her marrying a title would make Mrs. Tulley so happy. To her, all men who were not Mr. Norman were the same. She might as well marry the one with the most to offer. Emma had tried to convince her sister of the foolhardiness of this way of thinking and failed.

  In Mrs. Copeland's opinion Emma had no cause to feel guilt. Emma did not agree. And while she could think of nothing else to do for Lottie, she could do something. That something was apparently saving Mr. Darcy from Lady Celia's clutches.

  "You are going to hurt your eyes," Mrs. Copeland said as she watched Emma work. The light cast by the lamp was minimal where she lounged on the bed, Emma's perch across the room must be positively dark.

  Emma only smiled at her nagging,"It is not as if my vision could get worse. It is you who should be concerned. You are going to develop a squint reading in such poor light."

  Mrs. Copeland glanced at the book lying on her lap. She could not even recall the title. "I'm not really reading. I'm just trying to look properly contemplative for my portrait. It is a portrait of me, isn't it?"

  With an embarrassed little grin Miss Tulley replied, "It is, of course." She knew she had taken her portrait too many times already, but she had found her muse and was not about to let her go.

  Miss Tulley suddenly stilled, leaning back in her chair slightly, she gazed through the crack in the door into the darkened corridor. There was a flash of movement as a figure strode quickly past the sliver of light.

  Mrs. Copeland was surprised Emma remain seated. "Who was it?"

  "Miss Madigan."

  "Ah, sneaking off to the library no doubt. Or perhaps the kitchen. The Colonel is no doubt feeling equally in need of sustenance for the mind or stomach . . . or some other appetite."

  "You are terrible, Eugenia. She could have a perfectly innocent reason for roaming the halls in the dead of night."

  "Oh yes, there could be a perfectly innocent explanation, but that is hardly amusing to think about." Mrs. Copeland sighed dramatically then continued, "I suppose that is the most excitement we can expect from this lot. For all they say about the appetites of military gentlemen, I do no think there will be other late night visits, unless you are correct about Lady Celia."

  "I am correct about Lady Celia. And I do not know why people say military men are any more lecherous than any other kind of men. They are a little more democratic in their flirtations perhaps, but I cannot believe they pose a danger to the virtue of every maiden in the vicinity as some like to insinuate."

  "They are only dangerous to stupid young things who are easily dazzled by a uniform."

  "Well, I do not think the Colonel's friends are a danger to anyone. We all made such a merry party—much to my surprise."

  It was an odd gathering of people to be sure. The Colonel's guests were all younger sons of the gentry or minor peerage and former or current proud members of His Majesty's military, excepting Mr. Darcy of course. While Miss Madigan's guests were mostly unmarried ladies who very likely would one day hold the unenviable title of old maid. Rowdy military men and docile spinsters ought to have made for an awkward time, but they had got on splendidly.

  "Yes, you did seem to be having a good time. Especially with Major Whitmore."

  "Jealous?"

  "Not at all. I was pleased to see you enjoy yourself."

  "All the men were such monstrous flirts. I almost felt pretty."

  "You are pretty."

  Miss Tulley cast a disbelieving glare Eugenia's way, "If you dare speak any platitudes about inner beauty I will throw my pencil at you."

  Mrs. Copeland opened her mouth to retort then quickly closed it. This was a difficult subject. According to societal doctrine beauty was one of the few things of value a woman had to offer, and Emma believed she did not possess one jot of it. It was
impossible to convince her otherwise and it was equally impossible to convince her how fortunate she was not to be a great beauty. Mrs. Copeland had an antagonistic relationship with her own beauty. It had only ever brought her pain.

  Until it had brought her Emma. The first words Emma had spoken to her after they had been introduced were to ask if she could take her likeness. She had made the inquiry in that odd, unaffected way of hers. Eugenia had been so startled she agreed unthinkingly. Emma appreciated her beauty in the way an artist appreciated all lovely things. She wanted to capture it but not possess it, not jealously guard it as her late husband had.

  They had become instant friends. They found they had the same taste in music and theater, the same love of Fielding and Gerard and black currant jelly. As well as other shared interests . . . .

  Eugenia lowered her dark lashes, putting on her bedroom eyes. "Come here, I can make you feel pretty," she said huskily.

  "I'm busy," Emma replied primly, however she was not as unmoved as she appeared. Her mind was at once flooded with all the delicious possibilities a large comfortable bed and a locking door presented.

  Another opportunity such as this might not come around until the end of the Season when she returned to Bath with Eugenia to live as her "companion." Unpaid of course. Mrs. Tulley would never countenance her daughter being gainfully employed, even if that was what Emma wanted to do. However with Charlotte set to marry well, she was more than willing to part with her eldest daughter and allow her to be supported on someone else's coin.

  Oh, Lottie. Thoughts of her sister strengthened her resolve. If she could not keep her sister from Lord Bancroft she could at least keep Mr. Darcy from Lady Celia. Preventing one broken heart was the only way she could deserve her own happiness. Emma had the logic of a philosopher and the whimsy of an artist; to her, this necessary balancing of joy made perfect sense.

  "All your effort will be for naught if Mr. Darcy comes to visit Miss Bennet or she goes to him," said Mrs. Copeland.