Mistaken

by Jessie Lewis

  “Come, Darcy, you cannot have the blame for all the wrong in the world, you know. You were not the only person who suspected her of indifference. Besides, was it not you who accused me of yielding too easily to persuasion? It seems I have succeeded in proving your argument admirably, despite Miss Elizabeth’s best endeavours to defend my character.”

  Darcy gave a tired smile. “Miss Elizabeth would argue the sky is red in defence of a friend.”

  “Oh ho! I see how it is! The sky is really blue, and she believed me guilty of caprice all along, eh? I suppose I must be grateful she defended me so loyally, regardless of my defect.”

  “I should say you were served as well by her obstinacy as by her loyalty.”

  “Mayhap, but I prefer to think the loyalty was all for me and the obstinacy all for you.”

  Darcy’s smile vanished. “What makes you think so?”

  “What would make me think otherwise? I got on famously with Miss Elizabeth. The pair of you quarrelled incessantly.”

  If only her sister had been half as animated, I would not be in this deuced fix. The thought drove off his smile too, and not even the inclusion of sweetmeats on the tray sent up from the kitchen could restore it.

  ***

  Darcy did not want tea. He had come to redress the injury to his friend, only to be accused of a host of far worse offences, and he was in no humour for social niceties. He left it on the table and continued watching his friend unconsciously tear strips off the corner of a newspaper and roll them into balls, dismayed to be the cause of his evident distraction.

  “It has been many months,” Bingley said glumly. Without warning, he threw one of his pellets at Darcy’s neglected cup of tea. It missed. “Think you Miss Bennet’s regard has endured?”

  “If I could not tell that when in her company, you can hardly expect me to know it in her absence, but her sister certainly believes it has.”

  Bingley fired another pellet, which bounced off the tea caddy, and another, which sailed directly over the table onto the floor. “I should dearly like to see her.”

  Darcy reached over to steal one of his missiles and leant back, rolling it between finger and thumb. “If your affections and wishes are unchanged, then I do not see you have anything to lose by returning.” He flicked his pellet so it landed in his tea with a faint splash.

  With an incredulous expression, Bingley flopped back onto the sofa and huffed. “How vastly comforting.”

  “At worst, Miss Bennet will not welcome your renewed attentions, but in that case, you will be at no greater disadvantage than you are now. And as long as you are at Netherfield, you will at least have the pleasant company of your neighbours.”

  “Pleasant company?” Bingley scoffed. “You dismissed my neighbours as having little beauty and no fashion. How have they become pleasant to your mind?”

  Darcy started. True—apart from Elizabeth, he had not found the company in Hertfordshire particularly inspiring. Indeed, he would admit to taking pains to avoid some of Bingley’s more tiresome neighbours, and there had been precious few he had not considered tiresome…

  He clenched the arms of the chair until the urge to run a hand over his face passed. Never, ’til this moment, had he given the slightest credence to Elizabeth’s charge of conceited manners.

  “Was I uncivil to any of them?”

  “Lord, no! A little aloof, perhaps. And, of course, incorrigibly argumentative with Miss Elizabeth.”

  Darcy’s jaw began to ache from being clenched. “That is the second time you have alluded to antagonism between that lady and me. Actually, I found her company very pleasant indeed.”

  “You did? Well, good! I am not surprised. She is a lovely girl—almost as pretty as her sister—though she did not impress you at all, did she? What was it you said? Something along the lines of her being tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt you.”

  “I said no such thing,” he replied with the abysmal feeling of being wrong.

  “Yes, you did—at that first assembly. I attempted an introduction, but you refused and made some remark about her being slighted by other men and it being a punishment to stand up with her or some such nonsense.”

  Blood rushed in Darcy’s ears. “Pray tell me nobody heard.”

  “None but the lady herself!” Bingley said, chuckling as though this were not the most ruinous piece of news Darcy had received all year. “I hardly think she could have missed hearing it. We stood not two yards away.”

  Darcy surged to his feet. “Bingley, I am taking Georgiana to Covent Garden in less than one hour. You will forgive me, but I must leave.”

  ***

  He is here!

  Elizabeth stared in alarm at the familiar silhouette. She had never thought to encounter him again. Certainly naught could come of it but mortification on both sides. She turned to leave—too late, for he also turned, and their eyes met. She exhaled forcefully and stepped backwards, swaying slightly. It was not Mr. Darcy after all.

  The gentleman’s gaze brushed past hers to an older woman who could be heard berating him for being uncivil. Elizabeth smirked. Though the man’s features had not the same definition as Mr. Darcy’s—his expression had none of the intelligence—he exhibited all the same hauteur of rank, and she took a good deal of satisfaction in his set down. She strained to hear what excuse he gave in reply.

  “Cara is barely a twelvemonth in her grave, and you would have me flirt with these women? I miss my wife, madam.”

  She gasped and turned away.

  “Lizzy?” her uncle enquired. “Are you well?”

  She assured him she was and accepted his proffered arm, following his lead to their seats. He and Mrs. Gardiner chattered merrily ’til the curtain was raised, for which Elizabeth was vastly grateful; she was too overcome with shame to speak.

  Had she learnt nothing that she would wilfully misjudge one man simply to vindicate her opinion of another? Had she not yet learnt her opinion of the other was mistaken? Oh, Mr. Darcy was still the proudest, most disagreeable man she had ever met, but he had not mistreated Mr. Wickham. His efforts to separate Mr. Bingley from Jane, however objectionable to her, had not been malicious. For how long could she continue to think really ill of him without becoming guilty of conceit herself?

  ***

  “I am once again indisposed and therefore unable to accompany you to the theatre this evening. Please accept my apologies for your disappointment.”

  Georgiana read the note aloud and then looked up to gauge her companion’s response.

  “It seems a perfectly reasonable note,” Mrs. Annesley said. “A little terse perhaps, but if he is unwell, that is not to be wondered at.”

  “He did not look particularly unwell this morning,” Georgiana whispered. “Only distracted, as he usually is nowadays. I think he must still be angry with me.”

  Mrs. Annesley clicked her tongue. “Let us not begin that again. Your brother has told you the matter is closed.”

  Georgiana knew better than to argue. The subject of her misadventures with George Wickham had been well and truly exhausted between them. “But if I have not upset him, what has? He has been ill-tempered since we returned from Ramsgate and he visited Netherfield.”

  “It is not your place to question your brother’s conduct, Miss Darcy. You had much better return to your book.”

  Georgiana did as she was bid though she had already determined to question Miss Bingley about events in Hertfordshire when next they met.

  ***

  The intermission came, more an interlude to Elizabeth’s tragic narrative than to Shakespeare’s, and Mr. Gardiner was sent for refreshments. The ladies had not long been alone when an altercation erupted between two men a short way off.

  “Oh, dear! Let us move away,” Mrs. Gardiner whispered.


  Elizabeth would have done so directly had not one of the men then mentioned he who had been uppermost in her thoughts all evening.

  “…never known anybody so high in the instep. Well, fie on him and his righteousness! I say Mr. Darcy is a sanctimonious prig!”

  She fixed her eyes on the clearly inebriated speaker, her lips pursed against all the things she should like to say but could not. True, she had accused Mr. Darcy of worse, but she was acquainted with him well enough to have received an offer of marriage. She sincerely doubted this horrid little man had any such claim to intimacy.

  “I never said he was not, but he did not cheat you, Wrenshaw,” the other man replied, and it seemed very much as though it was not the first time he had said it.

  “How is it then that we parted with the same piece of land within two months of each other, and he made a fortune while I made naught but a fool of myself?”

  “Because you are reckless with your money!”

  “Piffle!” the man named Wrenshaw shouted to the tittered delight of the growing crowd. “He took advantage of me, I tell you! He is a cheat—a bounder! Do not be fooled by the stick up his bailey. No man can be that damned proper. I wager he has a whore in every bedroom at Pemberley!”

  A squall of gasps flew up.

  “Come away, Lizzy,” her aunt repeated, but she could not leave.

  “Mr. Darcy does not deserve this! He is not a bad man!”

  “I confess I am surprised to hear you defend him.”

  “I know, but I was very wrong about him.”

  “Here we are!” Mr. Gardiner announced behind them. Before either lady could do more than receive the drinks he had brought, he added, “Good gracious, is that you, Harding?” and walked directly to the pair of squabbling men.

  Mrs. Gardiner groaned. Elizabeth felt nothing but relief that Mr. Wrenshaw would be silenced. Within moments, her uncle was gesturing for them to join him. He introduced the quieter of the two men as a business acquaintance, Mr. Harding, and the other as that gentleman’s friend, Mr. Wrenshaw.

  “And this is my lovely wife, Mrs. Gardiner. She has spent a good deal of time in your part of the country actually, Mr. Wrenshaw, in Lambton. And this is my niece, Miss—”

  “Lambton? In Derbyshire?” Mr. Wrenshaw interrupted.

  “Yes, between Pemberley and Yewbridge,” answered Mrs. Gardiner, looking as displeased with his incivility as Elizabeth felt.

  “I know very well where it is, madam,” he replied curtly. To Mr. Harding he said, “It was Lambton that Crambourne wished to bypass with his blasted railway. And since Darcy would part with nary an inch of his estate, the arrogant swine bought half of mine and sold that to Crambourne instead! Now tell me he is not a swindling bleater!” His voice grew louder as he warmed to the topic, recalling the attention of all the eavesdroppers who had begun to lose interest.

  Elizabeth’s vexation flared. “Upon my word, you have been very free with your opinion of that gentleman this evening, sir.”

  Mr. Wrenshaw looked at her sharply. “What of it? You cannot have any peculiar interest in him.”

  “I daresay the energy with which you have maligned him has provoked us all to be a little curious,” Elizabeth replied, indicating with a glance the scores of inquisitive faces watching their exchange. “You are obviously keen that we should all agree with your estimation of his character, but none of us will be able to until you decide what it is you wish us to think of him.”

  His countenance reddened. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “You have accused Mr. Darcy of being righteous and depraved. I have been used to consider those opposing qualities. I am afraid he cannot be both.”

  “I merely suggested, madam, that the appearance of one often conceals the presence of the other.”

  “Indeed?” Elizabeth resisted a smile. “Then, it is to all our advantages that there are respectable men such as yourself to evince the difference for the rest of us.”

  “Lizzy!” Mrs. Gardiner hissed.

  “Indeed!” Mr. Wrenshaw assured her airily, to all appearances satisfied with the turn of the conversation—until several people sniggered nearby and his brow creased in puzzlement.

  His friend wasted no time engaging Mr. Gardiner on another matter. Elizabeth retreated, happy to observe the crowds and their interest dissipating and happier still when the second curtain call came and she was able to escape Mr. Wrenshaw’s odious company.

  ***

  Thursday, 23 April 1812: London

  Elizabeth turned away from the window at a sound beyond the door. The watery hues of daybreak had crept into the room behind her, diluting the light of her candle, which blew out anyway when her aunt bustled in.

  “Very well,” Mrs. Gardiner began at once, holding the door ajar for a maid with a tray. “Your uncle is not here now, so you may speak freely.” The maid closed the door as she left. “What transpired between you and Mr. Darcy in Kent?”

  Elizabeth smiled at her frankness. Having anticipated some explanation would be required, she had resolved to relay Mr. Darcy’s account of his history with Mr. Wickham, omitting any mention of Miss Darcy. That was all she would disclose, however, for she had not yet reconciled herself to any other part of their dealings and was certainly not ready to hear her aunt call her a fool. She accepted a cup of tea and returned with it to the window, where she watched the steam mist the glass as she told her tale.

  “Were you terribly disappointed to learn this about your favourite?” Mrs. Gardiner said at the end.

  “Happily, no,” she replied, shamed that her undisguised partiality had fixed Mr. Wickham in everyone’s minds as such. “I am angry with him, but the loss of his acquaintance will scarcely be a deprivation.”

  “Mr. Darcy, then, is not quite as dreadful as we all believed?”

  Elizabeth rubbed a little peephole in the condensation on the window and peered through it, but the view afforded her no new, improved perspective of his insufferable pride or insulting proposal. “Not in this matter at least.”

  “Well, it is a lesson learnt, my girl.”

  “Indeed it is. I hope I never allow myself to be blinded by prejudice again. Let us be thankful I have Jane to steer me. She has an enviable capacity to see good in everybody.”

  Mrs. Gardiner’s expression clouded slightly. “Forgive me for saying, but that is not always such a fine thing. Jane has been as much wounded by credulity as you have been by prejudice. Her desire to believe Mr. Bingley a good sort of man has seen her very ill-used.”

  “But he is a good sort of man!” Elizabeth pushed away from the casement and planted herself defiantly opposite her aunt, the sofa absorbing the brunt of her indignation. “Only, Mr. Darcy persuaded him against offering for Jane. He has admitted it!”

  “Ah! So his friend thought to remind him of the judgement that opposed inclination?”

  She set her cup down with a clatter. “His friend presumed to know Jane’s feelings and mistook her to be indifferent. They might have been married by now were it not for him!”

  “Be careful, Lizzy. Mr. Darcy is not the only person guilty of presumption in all this.”

  She could think of nothing to say in defence of that, and she was obliged to sit in silence whilst chagrin crept up her neck and overspread her cheeks.

  “Have you told Jane?”

  “About Mr. Darcy’s interference? Aye, though I regret telling her that much, for she is still in very low spirits.”

  Mrs. Gardiner frowned. “She has had a great many weeks to nurse her low spirits. She ought to take the time to listen to you.”

  “It is not that she will not take the time but that I do not wish to trouble her with it. Her heart is not mended. Mine is perfectly sound. There is no need for me to burden her further with tales of Mr. Wickham’s perfidy.�
��

  Or indeed Mr. Darcy’s proposal, though it was that about which Elizabeth most wished to talk to her. Yet, to complain about the offer of marriage she had received, when Jane was not yet recovered from injury of the offer she had not, seemed unpardonably cruel.

  Mrs. Gardiner looked as though she would object, but she was not given the chance. Her two sons burst into the room, each wailing the other had hurt him. She gathered them to her, conciliating and chastising as only a mother can do.

  “You are a dear girl, Lizzy,” she said over their heads. “Jane is very fortunate to have you.”

  ***

  Saturday, 25 April 1812: London

  Bingley turned away from the implacable butler and puffed out his cheeks helplessly. He ought to have known Darcy would not be at home. It was Saturday, and Darcy invariably visited Angelo’s of a Saturday morning. He looked up and down the street, hands on hips and chewing his lip, unsure what to do. He checked his pocket watch.

  “Oh! ’Tis later than I thought! I might as well wait here for him. I daresay he will not object as long as I behave myself.”

  “Miss Darcy and her companion are here, sir, also awaiting Mr. Darcy,” Godfrey replied.

  “Even better!” he cried, whipping off his hat and bowling past him into the house.

  “Did you enjoy the theatre on Wednesday?” he enquired of Darcy’s sister once all the requisite salutations had been exchanged and he had settled himself into a chair.

  “We did not go in the end. My brother was unwell.”

  “I am sorry to hear that,” Bingley replied, though it did explain why Darcy had seemed so out of sorts. “Is he recovered? He must be if he has gone fencing.”

  “I have not seen him since, so I cannot say.”

  “If he is sickening for something, I might have some luck convincing him to come with me for a few weeks for some country air.”

  “You are going away?”

  “I am!” Bingley resisted the urge to bounce up and down in his seat. “I am returning to Hertfordshire within the week for an indefinite stay.”