by Jennifer Joy
Accusing Elizabeth
A Pride & Prejudice Variation
Jennifer Joy
“Accusing Elizabeth: A Pride & Prejudice Variation”
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems — except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews — without permission in writing from its publisher, Jennifer Joy.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, locations, and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Jennifer Joy
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Twitter: @JenJoywrites
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Copyright © 2016 Jennifer Joy
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-0-9962310-8-4
To Mammy, who instilled a love of reading in all of her kids.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
Thank you!
About the Author
Other Books by Jennifer Joy
Chapter 1
Elizabeth Bennet clenched her hands, her nails biting the flesh of her palms until they hurt. She glared at Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, the man who dared insult her family in the same breath in which he professed his love for her. How dare he proudly admit to separating her sister from Mr. Bingley! And the disdain with which he spoke of Mr. Wickham, a man whose manners were so far superior to those of his own, set her in opposition to the overbearing, pompous man before her.
The more he spoke, the bigger the hole he dug for himself. When he insulted her father, that was the last straw.
Shaking in her ire, she said in no uncertain terms, “From the very beginning— from the first moment, I may almost say— of my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form the groundwork of disapprobation on which succeeding events have built so immovable a dislike. I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed upon to marry.” Her chest heaved in the passion of her disgust.
He paused, visibly grappling with the emotions he had said moments ago that he could no longer contain.
“You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your feelings and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been. Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time and accept my best wishes for your health and happiness.”
His speech, broken and forced, struck Elizabeth. She raised her fingers up to her hot cheek as he turned and walked out of the room. He had spoken in earnest. Then again, so had she.
Bereft of strength, she sank into the seat behind her. Drawing her legs up to her chest, she rested her face against her knees and measured her breaths. Charlotte and her younger sister, Maria Lucas, would return with Mr. Collins from their tea at Rosings soon. She must gain control of herself or risk being plied with questions she was unable to answer.
The crunch of wheels on gravel straightened her posture. It might be them returning from Rosings. She reached for the book she had been reading and sniffed back the tears threatening to spill.
Some minutes passed, but nobody entered the parsonage. All the better. Elizabeth’s overactive imagination conjured up a scene where Mr. Collins chanced upon Mr. Darcy leaving his home, knowing that she was without a chaperone. Instead of releasing his indignation on the gentleman— she used the term loosely— Mr. Collins would sooner blame her for her lack of propriety and accuse her of attempting to ensnare Mr. Darcy as a husband by arranging a compromising situation. Mr. Collins’ accusation, though not in reality uttered, and the ease with which he thought the worst of her, heaped fiery coals of anger toward Mr. Darcy and his unsolicited call on top of Elizabeth’s already large list of complaints toward that particular gentleman.
That made two proposals within the past six months— both refused.
Before she could wallow in too much self-pity, the Rosings carriage brought the inhabitants of the parsonage home.
She touched her cold fingers to her eyes to relieve the swelling and hoped the Collinses would assume she was miserable from the headache which had prevented her from joining them— a headache which had grown significantly worse since Mr. Darcy’s lousy proposal.
Cheerful chatter preceded the party to the door, but they fell silent as they crossed the threshold and saw Elizabeth sitting in the window seat.
Charlotte stepped forward, concern on her face. Clasping Elizabeth’s hands and sitting next to her, she said, “Are you well? Your face looks feverish.” To her husband, she said, “She is not well. Should we send for the doctor?”
The insides of Elizabeth’s cheeks stung as she bit them to refrain herself from expressing her ire and the source of her heightened complexion. “I assure you, I do not need a doctor and thank you for your concern for my health. I thought a quiet afternoon would ease the pounding in my head, but perhaps a stroll around your garden would be of more benefit.”
She rose, loosening Charlotte’s hold on her hands. Mr. Collins’ chest swelled at the mention of his beloved garden.
Before he could bless them with a lengthy oratory on the benefits of spending time out of doors in appreciation of God’s creations, Charlotte stood beside her, looping her arm through her friend’s. “I will join you. Let us walk in the orchard. It is quiet there, and we shall not disturb Mr. Collins in his book room. Lady Catherine had several opinions regarding his forthcoming sermon. He takes his duties to the people of Hunsford seriously, and he has much to investigate before next Sunday.”
Mr. Collins, whose feet had pointed to the door with every intention of accompanying them outside, now shuffled his boots toward the hallway leading to his study overlooking the road.
“How often it is that we must put the needs of others ahead of our own. Thank you, dear Mrs. Collins, for reminding me of the path I have chosen. How fortunate I am to have such a supportive wife, who seeks not her own selfish wants, but the benefit of others.” He pointed his words at Elizabeth, who had refused his offer of marriage only months before. She had not regretted her decision then, and she certainly did not regret it now, though he used every opportunity to show her what she would forever fail to benefit from.
“Come, Lizzy. You are in need of some fresh, spring air.” Charlotte stood by the open door.
Elizabeth needed no further encouragement.
The sweet breeze brought the best of spring’s offerings to her senses. Her hair, free of a bonnet
, swirled in her loose coiffure. The tree blossoms scented the air with the promise of succulent fruit. Bees hummed a low buzz, and birds chirped at the close of another busy afternoon’s work.
Charlotte did not speak until they were a safe distance from the house.
Choosing a plum tree to lean against, she folded her arms and gave Elizabeth the same self-satisfied look she had perfected on her dearest friend over the years. “Mr. Darcy was not even present, so you might have joined us instead of shrinking away from his company and spending a dull afternoon here.”
“I avoid one tea, and you accuse me of avoiding Mr. Darcy? Come, Charlotte, I have made no secret of my dislike of the gentleman to you, but I am not afraid of him… or his aunt.” Lady Catherine had done her best to intimidate Elizabeth at their first dinner at Rosings. Her failure to cower had only irritated the lady.
“I still think Mr. Darcy holds you in high regard. Otherwise, why would he look at you the way he does? Mark my words, Lizzy, Mr. Darcy admires you.”
If only she knew. But Elizabeth was not ready to tell her. It would only worsen her mood to recount the events of the afternoon to her friend who had predicted it so accurately.
“From the first moment of our acquaintance, Mr. Darcy has never once given me any reason to suspect….” Elizabeth could not bear to continue. She had seen the look on his face. She had seen the hurt. But the remorse she felt lasted only a brief moment. He had hurt Jane, and as the man responsible for the ruination of her happiness, he was undeserving of forgiveness. Continuing, she added, “If he were to ask, I would have to refuse.”
Charlotte’s firm gaze brought Elizabeth out of her thoughts to reality. In a soft voice devoid of judgment, Charlotte asked, “Why could you not accept Mr. Darcy? Surely his merits far outweigh his social deficiencies.”
Elizabeth wished, not for the first time, that she could be more like her pragmatic friend. Charlotte had married for convenience, and the past month spent in her company had proved her to be content with her circumstances. Charlotte made the best of it, encouraging Mr. Collins to spend time in his study and in his beloved garden while she took solace in turning the cramped parsonage into a comfortable home which she took pride in managing well. Such a life was not for Elizabeth. She would sooner die a spinster than sacrifice her values for anything less than the deepest, truest love. But Charlotte would not understand.
“No, Charlotte, I am convinced that a man’s character is defined by his actions, and I have seen nothing in Mr. Darcy’s behavior to justify any tender regard for him on my behalf.”
Charlotte propped her fists on her hips. “I know you too well. You have held a grudge against Mr. Darcy since he snubbed you at the Meryton Assembly. Admit it.”
Elizabeth lowered her chin and grumbled, “If I have a grudge, he has earned it.”
What frustrated her the most was that other than the all-important issue of manners, Mr. Darcy was the image of her ideal gentleman: tall, dark, mysterious, wealthy, and handsome in a way that should be painted and preserved in a museum for ladies of many generations to enjoy. She had hoped he might notice her at the Meryton Assembly where they first met. His charm melted away when he opened his mouth and revealed that he was nothing more than a puffed up snob. Though months had passed, she remembered his exact words: “She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me. I am in no humor at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men.” He had looked directly at her as he spoke. He had to have known that she could hear him. The memory of it made her angry with him all over again.
Charlotte reached her hand out to Elizabeth’s shoulder. “Perhaps he earned it. But you cannot afford to refuse another proposal. Who would propose to you if it became known that you would refuse Mr. Darcy? Please, Lizzy, promise me that you will give the matter serious consideration should he make an offer. After all, what would your parents say if you did not?”
Indeed. What would they say if they knew? They must never know. Swallowing hard, she tried to remember how lovely the orchard had felt minutes ago. The birds chirped their gossip, scoffing at her in high-pitched shrills. A strand of hair swirled in front of her nose and poked her in the eye. The bees listened from the safety of their hive, ready to spread the news of her secret across all England at first light.
In hopes of evading this conversation again, Elizabeth said, “You ought not worry yourself too much, Charlotte. Is Mr. Darcy not engaged to marry Miss de Bourgh?” She knew it could not be the case. Mr. Darcy was disagreeable, but he was not dishonorable.
Charlotte harrumphed. “If Lady Catherine had her way, they would have married years ago. Nobody in Hunsford takes it seriously. The fact that he has not married her makes me think that he does not want to and is under no obligation to do so.” She looked at Elizabeth with an ‘I-told-you-so’ air.
In another attempt to change the subject away from herself, Elizabeth said saucily, “No man would choose to have Lady Catherine as a mother-in-law. In that, I will acknowledge his good sense. Now, tell me, my dearest friend: In what way is your household lacking, and how ought you to care properly for your poultry?” She threw her nose up in the air in her best imitation of Lady Catherine.
Charlotte chuckled as Elizabeth intended. “Considering how Mr. Collins takes her every word to heart, I admit to letting my mind wander when she shares her multitudinous admonishments. So intent is she to impart her superior knowledge, she does not bother to make sure I am listening.”
They laughed heartily, and the orchard returned to the charming retreat it had been before any mention of Mr. Darcy had been made.
Chapter 2
Fitzwilliam Darcy marched his battered pride the half mile back to Rosings. What a fool he had made of himself— laying his heart bare before a woman he found intriguing enough to spend the rest of his life with, only to have her refuse him with disdain. What was worse… as bitter as he felt, he could not hate her or see her any less favorably than he had before. He had been abominably rude at the Meryton Assembly. He had hoped that his other merits would have softened the insult he had directed at her in time. Alas, he had lost her good opinion.
Stalking into his aunt’s house, he trudged up the stairs, ignoring the call of his cousin Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam until he reached his room and shut the door behind him. He was in no mood to talk, and Richard’s cheerfulness would goad him beyond what he could bear.
With a singular purpose, he crossed his room to the desk and pulled out several sheets of paper. Perhaps it was a foolish errand, but he could not allow Miss Elizabeth to continue to think so wrongly of him when it was in his power to enlighten her. Would it change her opinion? He could only hope. He would not give up so easily when his very soul knew that she was the only woman he could ever love. No other lady had altered the beating of his heart as she had. Ironically, it had begun with a refusal. Wispy curls of hair had caressed her rosy cheeks, an eyebrow arched over her gleaming eyes, and her curvy lips parted to rebuff him so politely and resolutely, he had determined to win her favor that moment. The intensity of his resolve was no less now than it had been that evening months ago, burning in his bones stronger than his pride.
He closed his eyes, and the mess of accusations against him ordered themselves into a neat line by order of the importance Miss Elizabeth placed upon them. Bingley and Miss Bennet were at the top of the list. How could he have known that Miss Bennet, with her tepid manners, was sincere in returning Bingley’s affections? He had watched them closely and judged her indifferent. Apparently, he had been wrong.
Next was the ever-present thorn in his side, Wickham. Miss Elizabeth’s appalling misjudgment needed clarification. To think that he came out the loser in a comparison against his enemy— a man so lacking in decency, he had nearly succeeded in eloping with Georgiana, his innocent sister. She was so shy in nature, he had never suspected that she had developed an attachment. Just like Miss Bennet and Bingley. Darcy groaned. Could it be that he had misread Miss
Bennet’s manners toward Bingley just as he had overlooked Georgiana’s growing interest in Wickham?
Cursing himself for not seeing what was now blatantly obvious, he nearly dumped the ink on top of the paper as he jammed the quill into the pot.
A great deal on his mind, he wrote in a tight script. Soon he had filled several pages, front and back, with thick, black letters. The relief of sharing his locked-in secrets cast a burden off his shoulders. He felt confident that Miss Elizabeth would protect them as much as she did her sister’s happiness. Her unwarranted prejudice against him aside, he had no reason to distrust her character. His confidence returned. The revealing pages beneath his fingers would cast a more favorable light on his behavior. Would her answer have been favorable had she understood? Had he forever lost her good opinion?
Quickly, not wishing to waste any more time, he penned a second letter. He would send it by a messenger so that Bingley would have it at first light.
Sealing the letters, Darcy looked out of his window to the darkness outside. He must have lit the lamp on the desk, but did not remember doing so. Nor could he account for the hours he had spent penning the letter on which all of his hopes depended.
He looked over at the vase of roses on the bedside table— the first of spring. He had plucked them earlier that morning. The soft pink petals reminded him of the color of Miss Elizabeth’s cheeks after one of her walks. Reaching out, he touched the soft silk of the flower. He could not give them to her now. Nor could he deliver her letter at such a late hour.
