Mistaken

by Jessie Lewis

  “I must say,” said Hurst a short while into the journey, “notwithstanding your professed heartbreak, you seem to be rallying remarkably well.”

  “I shall not forget her, Hurst. Miss Bennet is an angel.”

  “So you keep saying. Indeed, I cannot altogether account for your giving her up.”

  “She did not love me.” He sighed, rather pleased with the dramatic effect.

  “A man with your fortune does not require a woman to love him.”

  “Darcy did not agree. He said her sincere regard could be the only inducement to such an imprudent match.”

  “That only shows how deuced imprudent a match he considered it to be!”

  “But Dar—”

  “Cease hiding behind the Titan and admit it. You agreed with him.”

  “I did?”

  “Aye! He did not make you leave. You chose to do it. Besides, I do believe your spirits are more recovered than you allow. Remember, I witnessed your dance with Miss Aston Tuesday last.” He waggled his eyebrows salaciously.

  Bingley leant forward. “Stuff ’n’ nonsense! I am in love, and I shall not be convinced otherwise by you, my sisters, Darcy, Miss Aston, or anyone else!” He poked a forefinger into Hurst’s chest with each point.

  “Far be it from me to disabuse you of it. God knows you are forever in love with somebody. Only it does seem this particular fascination is beginning to lose its power. There is surely some comfort in that.”

  Bingley was forcibly returned to his seat when the carriage came to an abrupt halt outside his front door. There he remained, slumped dejectedly, shaking his head. “I swear I am as in love with Miss Bennet as ever I was.”

  Hurst chuckled quietly. “That I do not doubt, my friend.”

  ***

  Wednesday, 22 April 1812: London

  Darcy put his name to the last of the documents his attorney had brought and flicked the ink well shut. “Any other matters?” Already, he felt the tug of other thoughts and struggled prodigiously to ignore them as he concluded his meeting.

  “Only that the sale of land from Mr. Wrenshaw’s estate is completed.” Irving reached across the desk for his papers. “I wonder he did not wait to sell to Crambourne directly.”

  “I understand he was not at liberty to wait for funds.”

  Irving looked unsurprised and vaguely disgusted. “He is popular in some circles, I understand, but I have heard several things that have given me reason to think ill of him.”

  Only several? Darcy thought bitterly. Since Elizabeth had every reason in the world to think ill of him, that gave Wrenshaw the advantage.

  “I do not suppose Crambourne was in any haste, either,” Irving went on, sliding the documents into his satchel. “Railways are a patient man’s investment. Though Wrenshaw is the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Um, I said Wrenshaw is the last man in the world whom I would expect to comprehend that…sir.”

  Darcy clenched his teeth against an imprecation, immeasurably weary of hearing Elizabeth’s voice and recalling her enmity in every conversation. “Quite.”

  “Still,” Irving said with a caution Darcy despised, for it bespoke his own insufferable distraction, “Wrenshaw approached you with the offer, not the reverse. One must suppose he knew what he was about.”

  “Quite,” Darcy repeated, unable to keep from wincing at the memory of Elizabeth’s response to his offer. His brief pause must have stretched into a long one, for Irving cleared his throat loudly before announcing his readiness to depart. Cursing silently, Darcy thanked him for his diligence and personally escorted him out. Would that have made Elizabeth think him any more gentlemanlike or merely prouder and more unlikeable for having been inattentive in the first place?

  “I shall have coffee in my study now, Godfrey,” he instructed the butler, as though coffee was all that was needed to silence the unending echo of her reproofs.

  He had barely seated himself back at his desk when there was a knock at the door. He barked an instruction to enter but regretted his tone when his sister stepped into the room. He stood immediately to greet her.

  “Pray, excuse the interruption,” she begged. “Godfrey said you were busy, but I simply had to see for myself that you were better.”

  He flinched. As a rule, he abhorred disguise of any sort, but he had arrived home from Kent with no inclination whatsoever to discuss his time there; thus, he had feigned illness to avoid her questions. “I am—thank you.”

  “I am pleased to hear it. I have been very worried. And now we shall still be able go to the theatre this evening.”

  It took a heartbeat, but the allusion found a mark amongst the tumult of his thoughts. Damn! Romeo and blasted Juliet!

  “You do look tired, though,” she said, coming forward to peer at him. “I trust nothing is amiss?”

  “Nothing at all.” Indeed, had he not repeatedly assured himself that an alliance with Elizabeth would have been a terrible mistake? “All is as it ought to be.” The ache that abruptly assailed him indicated otherwise. He inhaled sharply at the unpleasantness of it—a cold, inflexible, and altogether appalling loneliness.

  “Very well then,” his sister said. “I shall leave you for now.”

  “There is no need to rush off. Would you care for some refreshments?”

  “I thank you, no. Mrs. Annesley is waiting for me in the carriage. I only stopped by to see if there was aught you needed.”

  Yes! Elizabeth! The ache deepened, closing his throat alarmingly, so it was all he could do to give a curt shake of his head.

  “Then, I shall see you this evening.”

  She exchanged a brief word with Godfrey at the door as she left. Darcy watched the butler unload his tray onto the table, furious with himself for even noticing the solitary cup in its solitary saucer. He was further vexed by the almighty thud his heart gave when Godfrey presented him with a letter clearly postmarked from Kent. He resolutely ignored the chasm of disappointment that opened in his gut upon recognising the hand as his cousin Anne’s.

  He tossed the letter onto the table where it lay, taunting him with the possibility of its containing any mention of Elizabeth, while he lowered himself into a chair and poured some coffee. He knew not which he most wished to gratify: his desire never to think of her again or his longing to know how she fared. Reasoning that Anne was unlikely to have mentioned her in any case, he opened the letter. Then, though but a moment before he had believed his wish for news to predominate, he began to regret reading.

  Rosings Park, Kent

  April 20

  Cousin,

  Your recent visit must render any news I have redundant. Nevertheless, my mother insists.

  We do tolerably well. The weather is improving at last, and I have been out in my phaeton every day it has not rained. Mr. Collins’s sermon yesterday was his worst yet. You would have choked. Still, my mother seemed pleased by it.

  She is to host a dinner next week for Lord and Lady Metcalfe. I do not look forward to it, for I have always thought Lady Metcalfe rather stupid. I suspect my mother only tolerates the connection as a means of relieving her occasional ennui, which might explain the peculiar interest she took in Miss Bennet. You would not credit their most recent exchange, a discussion of the differences in understanding between the classes. Miss Bennet holds that intellect cannot be dictated by accident of birth. Her example was her success in teaching one of the children of her father’s tenants to read. His mother left or died or some such, and he wished to read stories to his sister—all very touching I am sure, but really! Does Miss Bennet fancy herself governess to the poor? My mother was most vexed at being required to justify her understanding of the matter, but then, she would engage Miss Bennet to begin with! I hope L
ady Metcalfe proves to be an adequate proxy.

  The gnawing ache of loneliness abruptly fractured into a gaping abyss, seething with insuperable memories, Elizabeth’s compassion not least among them. How fiercely he cherished her compassion! Her everything! Her laugh, her liveliness, her wit, her figure, her eyes—dear God, her eyes!

  “Damn it, why can I not stop loving you, woman?”

  He threw the letter down and propelled himself from his chair to stalk off the intolerable feeling of loss. That he should be in love at all was absurd. That he should love a woman with so immoveable a dislike of him was unbearable. And she accused him of causing other people’s misery! What did other people know of this pain? What was Jane Bennet’s misery but a frustrated design to marry well? What was Bingley’s but a necessary evil? Not even Georgiana—

  He drew up short. Could Georgiana’s disappointment be so readily dismissed? Could the fiend who caused it be so readily forgiven? The thought struck him with force, shame blossoming like a bruise from the point of impact. Darcy knew well the grief of seeing a sister broken-hearted, yet with what ease, what presumption, had he dismissed Elizabeth’s anger. His own heart squeezed to think she must despise him as vehemently as he did Wickham.

  His shame notwithstanding, a grim relief overtook him. Nothing was mended; nothing was as it ought to be, despite the lie he had told his sister. Yet, for the first time since Elizabeth entered his world and tore apart his understanding of it, Darcy knew precisely what he must do.

  ***

  The arrival of a visitor distracted them, but a quick glance from the window revealed it to be an acquaintance of their uncle. Jane returned to arranging her sister’s hair, aware of, but refusing to acknowledge, how she scrutinised her in the mirror.

  “’Tis no good,” Elizabeth said. “I cannot forgive their interference—not when I see you are this unhappy.”

  Jane suppressed a sigh. She had hoped the interruption might end their conversation. “I am unhappy, yes,” she mumbled past the pin held between her teeth. She took it out and pushed it into a curl, adding, “But I cannot believe that either Mr. Darcy or Mr. Bingley’s sisters schemed to make me so. Their motive was much more likely to protect him than to harm me.”

  “Whatever their motive, the consequence remains unchanged. You are miserable.”

  Whatever Elizabeth’s motive in so obstinately pursuing the matter, it was not helping to relieve the misery upon which she was so keen to remark. “Do not blame them, Lizzy,” she begged, coiling a last length of hair around her finger. “If Mr. Bingley was persuaded to leave on the basis of their recommendation alone, it confirms nothing more than an error of fancy on my part.”

  “I sincerely hope you do not mean to blame yourself!” Elizabeth cried, twisting to scowl up at her.

  Better that than to blame Mr. Bingley, Jane thought, for if she allowed him to be as heartless as Elizabeth wished to paint him and with such awful friends, she would feel even more foolish for being unable to stop loving him.

  “Keep still or it will all be undone,” she chided, gesturing for Elizabeth to turn back to the mirror and retrieving the strand of hair that was wrenched from her fingers when she twisted around. “Let us talk about it no more, for no amount of reproach will change anything.” She stepped back to review her work. “I am sure I shall begin to get the better of it very soon.”

  “I dearly hope so. You deserve to be happy. You are so good—and five times as pretty as the rest of us,” Elizabeth added playfully.

  Jane smiled as best she could, though her best felt rather feeble. In truth, at that moment, with her hair gleaming in the last rays of afternoon sun, a smile illuminating her face and her eyes twinkling from teasing, she rather thought Elizabeth was the prettier one. She felt a twinge of something unpleasant but dismissed it and searched in her box for a ribbon.

  “Indeed!” Elizabeth persisted. “Mr. Atkinson thought so. Only you were too modest to notice.”

  Jane said nothing and continued working, weaving the ribbon between curls and securing it with jewelled pins. She had noticed, actually. There had been several young gentlemen in attendance at Mr. Atkinson’s dinner yesterday, all of whom had flocked to her upon first introduction. During the course of the evening, however, their attention had gravitated towards Elizabeth, where it had then remained. It had since struck her that this was not an entirely uncommon occurrence. The more she had thought on it, the more instances she recalled of her sister’s prevailing popularity. In the wake of Mr. Bingley’s abandonment, these were not happy insights.

  “Ow!” Elizabeth yelped, adding with a laugh, “I am sure it will look well enough without the ribbon!”

  “A moment, ’tis nearly done.”

  When Jane had been in Mr. Bingley’s company, her sister’s presence or absence had gone entirely unnoticed. His attentions had never diverted to Elizabeth or anyone else—until he left. She dropped the pin she held onto the dresser.

  “I believe that will do. You look very well. I am sure you will be much admired at the theatre.”

  ***

  Bingley sat perfectly still, gawping at his friend. He was aware of all the things he ought to have felt—anger, disappointment, and hope to name but a few—yet all he truly felt was unnerved. The man who owned to having given him such disastrous advice was the very man to whom he would usually apply for advice on what to do about it, leaving him at something of an impasse.

  “I am not at all sure how you expect me to respond to such an admission,” he said at length.

  Darcy stared at him with exceedingly disconcerting gravity. “You have every right to be furious.”

  The notion of being furious with the Titan was so absurd, Bingley almost laughed. “I cannot pretend not to be shocked that you concealed Miss Bennet’s presence in Town, but you have owned yourself that your inducement was to protect me. How could anyone fault you for as much?”

  “I daresay it is easier than you think,” he snapped and then, in a more reserved tone, added, “To persuade you against a course of action before you even sought my advice was…it was arrogant.”

  “But you gave more reasons to leave than her indifference. What of your other objections—connections and fortune and the like?”

  “They stand.”

  “Then dash it if I am not utterly befogged! If your opinion of the match has not changed, what is it you came here to advise me?”

  “I did not come to advise you. I came to inform you I was mistaken as to Miss Bennet’s regard.”

  “Then you now believe there is sufficient inducement for the match?”

  “I no longer believe I should be the judge of the matter.”

  “But you do believe she loved me?”

  “Yes.”

  “You think, then, I ought not to have left?”

  “I think I should not have advised you to leave, which is a very different matter.”

  “Then you still think I was right to leave?” Darcy looked as though he would speak but then, very unhelpfully, did not. Bingley huffed his frustration. “You think I ought to have stayed?”

  “It matters not what I think! Make whatever decisions you will, but pray do not ask that I advise you.”

  “That will not do at all! Where would I be without you to tell me what to do?” Bingley replied, only partially in jest.

  Darcy’s voice took an edge. “You ought to have more courage in your convictions.”

  “Perhaps, but it is much easier to have courage in yours. You are an excellent friend; master of your own estate, you have lived in the world. It is surely to my advantage that you offer advice so freely and so often.”

  Having thought it a handsome compliment, Bingley could not comprehend why it should make his friend scowl so. Not knowing what else to do, he stood and rang the bell for tea. It was while
his back was turned that he could have sworn Darcy murmured, “I am Lady Catherine.”

  By the time he returned to his seat, silence had taken command of the room. Silences made Bingley excessively conscious, yet Darcy’s sullen glare was not conducive to intrusion. Resigned to waiting for him to cease brooding, he toyed with the torn corner of a discarded newspaper and did what people were supposed to do in moments of quietude: he reflected. The more he thought about Miss Bennet, however, the more confounding the situation seemed. Fortuitously, just as bewilderment threatened to overwhelm him, Darcy roused himself to speak.

  “It seems I have mistaken friendship for patronage. I had not considered my advice officious, but I see now it was.”

  “Indeed, it was not. Your observations of Miss Bennet’s reserve were perfectly reasonable. Despite her sister’s claims, one wonders what strength of feeling existed beneath so composed an exterior.” Bingley could not but smile at the irony of having such a conversation with Darcy, of all men. “Though I must be allowed some reassurance from your example.”

  “Meaning?”

  “If we are to dub inscrutability the harbinger of indifference, you could be labelled the most unfeeling of all men. My knowledge to the contrary ought to give me hope that Miss Bennet’s affections were merely under similar regulation.”

  Bingley was vastly pleased with this bit of logic. Darcy seemed less impressed. He took so long to answer that a footman arrived, received Bingley’s request for refreshments, and went away again before he responded—and then Darcy’s answer made no sense.

  “She never knew.”

  “Never knew what?”

  He gave no answer at all this time and, as though to disprove Bingley’s reasoning, now looked profoundly troubled.