A Pemberley Medley (A Pride & Prejudice Variation)

by Abigail Reynolds

  “You need not tell me this, sir,” she said uncomfortably.

  “I would not wish you to be misled by Wickham’s charming manner.” There was a bite in Mr. Darcy’s voice.

  “I do not doubt your word.” At least not any longer. The words hung unspoken in the air.

  “I am glad to hear it, for I do not wish you to be under a misapprehension. Especially regarding me, when it is clear your opinion of me is not high.”

  “Mr. Darcy, in truth I find it hard to hold any opinion about you for more than a day at a time, since you persist in surprising me, and I hear such differing reports of your character as to confuse me completely.”

  “Differing reports? From Mr. Wickham?”

  She shook her head, then with a sudden urge to tease, said, “I have many sources of information, sir. For example, after hearing Miss Bingley praise the neatness and deliberateness of your letter-writing, I now hear that you are prone to write half the night and then burn the results.”

  He stiffened, and a flush rose in his cheeks. “There is some writing best consigned to the flames.”

  “Such as?” She was playing with fire, but for some reason, she had no desire to stop.

  “Such as words of ardent admiration directed toward someone who would have no desire to hear them.” His voice was oddly flat, and his eyes seemed fixed on the horizon.

  She had not expected so direct an answer, and it left her confused, embarrassed, and unable to find words for an answer. But something about the set of his jaw told her of his pain, and she could not bear to be the cause of it. “Unless, perhaps, the lady is in possession of differing opinions owing to the many differing reports she hears.” She blushed furiously at her forwardness.

  He froze and stared at her, his mouth opening as if to say something, but nothing emerged. Elizabeth could not quite hide a self-satisfied smile, but did not meet his gaze. After a moment, he appeared to recollect himself and began to walk again. Elizabeth was beginning to think she had misjudged his words and truly embarrassed herself when he finally said in a somewhat strangled voice, “Indeed.”

  She could not decide how to interpret that, especially since he seemed to have developed a sudden interest in the line of trees on the horizon. He did not show the pleasure she had hoped he might, leaving her to consider the worst possibilities. Perhaps she had done nothing but convince him she was, like so many others, a fortune-hunter of the worst sort. The thought was intolerable, so with great energy she began to discuss the recent improvements Mr. Collins had made to the parsonage at Lady Catherine’s behest. It was the dullest and least flirtatious subject she could devise.

  Mr. Darcy made little response, but there was nothing unusual about that.

  Elizabeth’s words continued to haunt her, bringing flushes of embarrassment to her cheeks whenever she thought of their interchange. She held many a conversation in her imagination with Mr. Darcy where she attempted to turn her forwardness into a light-hearted joke, but found that even thinking of him tended to put her wits into disarray. She was tempted to avoid the grove completely the following morning; but her courage, which always rose with each attempt to intimidate her, would not allow such cowardice.

  And so it was that she found her way to the grove before the morning mists had been dissipated by the sun, dew staining the edge of her petticoats. Mr. Darcy was already waiting there, and his countenance warmed at her approach. His appearance relieved her greatest anxiety; had she indeed offended him, all he need do was avoid the grove, but instead he had come to meet her. After a brief murmured greeting, he offered her his arm and they began to walk.

  They were but a short distance from the Parsonage when Mr. Darcy said, “Miss Bennet, are you indeed a lady of differing opinions?”

  Elizabeth’s heart began to race. “I pride myself on never maintaining the same opinion for more than an hour at a stretch,” she said with mock solemnity.

  He inclined his head. “Then I will have to hope that I am choosing the correct hour to give you this, rather than allowing it to join its fellows as kindling for the fire.” He took a letter from his pocket and held it out to her.

  Her hand trembling slightly, she took it between her fingers, aware how close to his body it had been lying. She was too embarrassed to meet his eyes, knowing this was an impropriety that could not be ignored.

  “I will leave you now,” he said quietly, and when Elizabeth automatically held out her hand to him, he took it in a firm grip. “And now, in the eventuality that I may never have the opportunity to do this again…” He raised her hand to his lips and applied a kiss that was more a caress than a formality. Then he held the back of her hand to his cheek, his dark eyes capturing hers, and Elizabeth forgot to breathe for a long moment.

  Darcy released her hand after brushing it once more with his lips. “I wish you good day, Miss Bennet.” And then, with a slight bow, he turned again into the plantation, and was soon out of sight.

  “Good day, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said to his retreating back. As he walked away, she instinctively pressed the letter to her chest., a smile beginning to curve her lips.

  She found her way into a private part of the garden where she could not be seen from the parsonage. With the strongest curiosity, she opened the letter, and, to her increasing wonder, perceived an envelope containing two sheets of letter paper, written quite through, in a very close hand. The envelope itself was likewise full. Sitting on a small marble bench, she then began it. It was dated from Rosings, at five o’clock in the morning, and was as follows:

  If this letter is not to be consigned to the flames, I must consider where to begin. I have told you so often in my dreams and in these letters of my ardent admiration of your person, the extraordinary pleasure I derive simply from being in the same room with you, how the sound of your laughter brings warmth into a cold world, how your eyes sparkle when you tease me, that it is easy to forget that I have used nothing more than glances to communicate those sentiments to you in reality. But start somewhere I must, so I will begin at the night of the ball at Netherfield. I was determined to dance with you that night, to have the privilege of your attention for an entire half hour, a prospect as intoxicating as fine wine. For weeks I had remained on the periphery, listening to your conversations, noting at whom you smiled and whose attentions you preferred to receive, what made you laugh, and how you would step in when you felt someone was in danger of being offended. I wanted to understand your magic, what enchantment you used to keep me in thrall, what secret element you possessed that would not allow me to look away; I, who have looked on the greatest beauties of the ton and remained unmoved.

  I first came to Netherfield shortly after settling my sister’s household in London, after the dreadful affair of which you are aware. I have never been much inclined to social events, preferring a quiet night with a few friends to a ball at Almack’s, but at that point my disinclination for society was at its greatest. The man who, although we had grown apart, was my oldest friend, had betrayed me in the worst way possible. I was in no mood to make new acquaintances, and anything that smacked of fortune-hunters enraged me. I cared nothing for what anyone thought of me, and felt little pleasure in anything. Then, one day, someone at a party asked my opinion of something. I responded tersely, no doubt rudely, and you turned your fine eyes on me and said, “And at last Mr. Darcy has dazzled the room with his knowledge! We must all be duly grateful.” Your laughing voice seemed to make the candles burn brighter, and I became your captive. But every time I attempted to approach you, you seemed to fly away. You refused to dance with me at Lucas Lodge and later at Netherfield during your sister’s illness. Thereafter my only delight was to look on you, to hear you speak, to think of you, to dream of you each night.

  My dearest Elizabeth – and I must hope you will forgive my forwardness in addressing you thus; but since I have written you so many letters that were never to be read, and it is of little matter to the fire how forward the words it burns might be, I ha
ve taken that liberty too often to surrender it now, because the sound of your name, the appearance of it coming from my pen, is an addictive delight – you cannot imagine the torment I felt at leaving Hertfordshire, knowing I was unlikely ever to see you again. I doubt I could have found the resolve to do so for my own sake; it was only out of a sense of duty to Bingley that I could force myself to leave the web of bewitchment you had cast upon me. I wish I could say that I forgot you quickly, but it would be a lie; you were my first thought in the morning and my last at night, and you danced through my dreams like a siren I could not hope to escape, nor did I wish to. For a time I thought it would drive me to madness, and I had only just regained some sense of myself when I left London for Rosings, only to find the siren herself at the end of my journey. Even a brief time in your company was enough to place me once again in the gravest of danger, perhaps even more than I had been in Hertfordshire, because now I had the certainty that I could not escape the memory of you. I tried with all my might to stay away, but a teasing Cupid kept throwing you in my path – at church, where I could not attend to a word of the sermon, as all my prayers were of you; when you dined at Rosings, and I knew that all the family expectations in the world could not compensate for the joy I received whenever a smile would touch your lips. I was lost before I began.

  I would tell you of my longing for you, but those words are not suited for a maiden’s eyes; that letter must be fed to the hungry fire, which does not burn as fiercely as my love for you. I could write to you of the depth of my hopeless admiration of you and how it overcame all my scruples, but words of that sort are likely to be as unforgivable as they are unforgettable. I can only tell you of the lessons I have learned from you, my dearest, loveliest, Elizabeth; lessons of the heart, of the error of my ways and my intolerable selfishness in not considering the sensibilities of those I care for, lessons which have made me a better man. They have also made me into a man who will never forget the sparkle of your fine eyes, the delightful turn of your countenance when you spy a victim for your teasing, the extraordinary light you bring into the darkest room; and I will always feel the lack of your presence when I am away from you, even though years and decades may pass. You are a woman in a million, as much for your honesty and sweetness as for your beauty and wit, and it has been my privilege to be a worshipper at your feet. Those are memories I would not surrender for anything, even if they are the only ones I ever have of you.

  Now you see what only the flames have seen until now. I will understand completely if you treat me as if this letter had never existed; indeed, I deserve no more, and you need not worry that I will importune you further. Your love is a prize I dare not dream of gaining, one too precious for a mere mortal such as myself, but if you find any small part of yourself that is willing to consider my suit, nay, even to tolerate my occasional presence, I pray you will find some way to take pity on me and show me your forgiveness for these words. I will be in the grove each morning, my thoughts filled with you.

  I will only add, God bless you.

  Yours, more than my own,

  Fitzwilliam Darcy

  Elizabeth’s feelings on reading this letter were scarcely to be defined. Her cheeks wore a warm blush provoked by Mr. Darcy’s unexpectedly passionate eloquence. His attachment incited gratitude; his ardour, a sense of near-disbelief. How badly she had misread his behaviour even in Meryton, taking such a pronounced dislike to a gentleman who clearly saw himself as in her power! Her inclination before reading it was already in his favour, and it was impossible not to be touched by the depth and enduring nature of his attachment, and being touched by it, to feel some of the same warmth toward the writer. She read the letter over and over again, until she was in a fair way of knowing by heart. Finally, with a dreamy smile, she hid the precious letter in her reticule and returned to the parsonage.

  An agitated Charlotte awaited her. “Lizzy, wherever have you been? We have been invited to tea at Rosings, and are expected in less than an hour. Mr. Collins has been frantic over your absence.”

  Indeed, it had grown later in the day that Elizabeth had realized, but the unexpected invitation threw her into a turmoil of spirits. She had thought she had until the next morning to decide on a response to Mr. Darcy, and now she would be face to face with him in a short time – and in front of his family and the Collinses. How could she meet with him in public with the words of his letter ringing in her mind?

  She hurried upstairs to change and to bring her hair into some sort of order. She wished she had more time so that she could look her best, but then she laughed at herself. Given what Mr. Darcy had written in his letter, she doubted it would matter to him if she appeared before him in rags. He had forgiven her so many other faults that a hurried toilette could hardly be expected to affect him!

  In a short time, she joined Mr. and Mrs. Collins. The walk to Rosings, which might have given her time to calm herself, instead seemed devoted to flutterings of her pulse. Her distraction was such that Mr. Collins bestirred himself to ask if she were quite well, and to caution her on the dangerous of bringing contagious illness into the presence of Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Elizabeth could not help thinking that Lady Catherine would likely prefer a grave illness to the knowledge that she harboured a competitor for Mr. Darcy’s affections!

  Elizabeth barely knew where to look when they were ushered into Lady Catherine’s presence. She dared not glance at Mr. Darcy for fear that her embarrassment would be all too easy for that gentleman to read. Fortunately, visits with that lady did not require thought about conversation, since Lady Catherine invariably directed the discussion in whatever direction interested her. On this day her mind turned to the subject of punctuality, owing to her displeasure with the arrival of the visitors several minutes after the hour specified.

  Mr. Collins naturally could not apologize to her ladyship enough for this grave sin, though he sprinkled his expression of contrition with many compliments to both Lady Catherine and Miss DeBourgh. “We can all learn from your most excellent example, Lady Catherine, especially my dear cousin Elizabeth, as our deplorable tardiness was the result one of her exceedingly long rambles. Your ladyship has condescended to warn her of the dangers of this behaviour in the past. Today she left at mid-morning and did not return until an hour ago!”

  “Miss Bennet, is this true?” Lady Catherine demanded.

  “I am sorry to say it is true, Lady Catherine. I was preoccupied with my thoughts and lost track of the time, and it was most inconsiderate of me. I hope you will find it in your heart to exonerate Mr. and Mrs. Collins for this fault, which was solely my own.”

  Mr. Darcy’s deep voice came from behind her. “The fault is mine. I encountered Miss Bennet on her walk and engaged her in conversation for some time, which caused the delay in her return.”

  Startled, Elizabeth looked over at him, and her eyes met his dark, penetrating gaze. His expression was sober, but she thought she could perceive some signs of concern in the manner in which he held his hands, as if he was uncertain what to do with them. Feeling the more than uncommon awkwardness and anxiety of his situation, she said with a smile, “Mr. Darcy is most gracious, as our conversation was not of such great length that I could not have returned in good time, but the subject of his discourse gave me a great deal to ponder about.”

  Lady Catherine frowned. “What could my nephew possibly have found to converse about with you at such length?”

  Elizabeth, realizing that private conversation with Mr. Darcy was a worse sin in her ladyship’s eyes than mere tardiness, thought quickly and said, “Oh! It was a matter pertaining to his visit to Hertfordshire last autumn. The people there are unused to contact with a gentleman as discerning and knowledgeable as Mr. Darcy, and could not always perceive his generous motives in offering them his advice regarding the… management of their estates. I assure your ladyship that I now have a much better understanding of the value of Mr. Darcy’s opinion on matters of husbandry - “ at that moment her voice falte
red briefly as she realized the interpretation he might put upon her words, “And I intend, on my return to Hertfordshire, to make certain that his most excellent advice is attended to by all concerned.”

  Lady Catherine appeared mollified by this. “I am glad, Miss Bennet, to see that you can recognize your betters and learn from them. I am sure my nephew is far more knowledgeable in these matters than the persons with whom you are accustomed to consorting.”

  “I cannot argue with your ladyship,” Elizabeth said, giving Mr. Darcy a teasing look. “His eloquence is enough to convince even those of differing opinions.” She was rewarded by the sight of his eyes opening slightly wider in surprise.

  To Elizabeth’s mingled relief and disappointment, there was no opportunity for direct discourse with Mr. Darcy during the visit, as Lady Catherine decreed that her nephew should remain by the side of Miss DeBourgh. Elizabeth did not know what she would have said to him had the opportunity presented itself, but she could not deny that she wished it would. Her frustration was eased only when the time came to depart, when, while Lady Catherine was giving endless household advice to Charlotte, Mr. Darcy caught her gaze and his lips shaped the word, “Tomorrow.”

  Elizabeth anticipated another restless night, but that did not prove to be the case. Once she was abed, she read Mr. Darcy’s letter one more time, then folded it and put it under her pillow, and almost immediately she drifted off into a deep sleep.