Mistaken

by Jessie Lewis

  “Is your cousin always such scintillating company?” enquired Mrs. Sinclair, on his right, to Fitzwilliam on his left.

  Before he could decide whether to be affronted or embarrassed, his cousin replied, “Not always. Sometimes he does not even trouble himself to scowl.”

  “I think we can all agree it would be absurd for him to go about grinning at everybody if he does not mean to speak,” she replied, somehow turning the conversation so that Fitzwilliam was to blame. “You had much better carry on scowling, Mr. Darcy”—at which they both turned away to pursue other conversations.

  Darcy motioned for his glass to be refilled. Though he disliked Mrs. Sinclair’s incivility, he disliked more that his own disinclination to converse had caused offence. Again. He recalled Elizabeth with crystal clarity, dancing circles around him as she teased that he was of an “unsocial, taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak unless he expected to say something that would amaze the whole room.” He reached for his wine and attempted to pick up one of the conversations around the table, resolved to make more effort at being cordial.

  “How did he propose?” he heard his sister enquire.

  He set his glass down and let out a long breath. That was one conversation to which he would absolutely not be contributing.

  “I do not imagine he did,” his cousin Ashby replied condescendingly. “It was no doubt arranged for them.”

  “That is a shame.”

  “How so, Miss Darcy?” Lady Philippa demanded. “That is the way of things.”

  “It may well be the way of things, Philippa,” opined her friend Lady Daphne, “but it is not terribly romantic, is it?”

  “What has romance to do with a contract of marriage?” enquired Lord Matlock. “The Pendlebury girl ought to be well satisfied with such an excellent match.”

  “I do not mean to suggest she ought to be dissatisfied, my lord. But it would not have hurt the gentleman to give her some assurance of his regard.”

  “That is a pretty notion, I am sure,” countered Colonel Fitzwilliam, “though rather dependent on him having any.”

  Ashby snorted.

  “If that be the case,” argued Lady Daphne, “he ought to have employed whatever arts were at his disposal, for I can think of no occasion with more need for disguise. Every woman wishes to believe she will be respected and esteemed by her husband, even if it is not likely be the case.”

  “Oh, do stop, Daphne,” Lady Philippa said sharply, perhaps because her friend had been looking at her when she spoke. “You are making yourself sound ridiculous.”

  “No, I quite agree with Miss Darcy,” Lady Daphne insisted. “A woman ought to be flattered at such an auspicious moment, not treated as so much chattel.”

  The conversation moved on, but Darcy heard none of it over the thrumming in his ears. He stared at his glass. It was empty. Had he not assured Elizabeth of his regard? Of course he had. He made a bloody fool of himself declaring his ardent bloody love. He certainly recalled the passion with which he detailed the obstacles his attachment had overcome, the scruples he had set aside, and the injury to his consequence he was overlooking—in retrospect, hardly quixotic sentiments. He twisted the stem of his glass between his fingers, spinning it back and forth.

  He was certain he must have complimented her, even if he could not recall what words he used. Though—damn! Now that he had begun dwelling on the whole infernal scene, he did recall excusing his want of flattery as an unashamed form of honesty, blaming her affront on her own pride. And to what great pains he had gone to illustrate he did not respect her situation, that she was not worthy of his declaration! He signalled again for more wine.

  Her reproof that he had not behaved in a gentlemanlike manner, which had wounded him so deeply at the time, seemed positively generous in this new light. Any other woman might have wept to receive such insults. Yet, even as the thought occurred to him, he realised she had. Her red-rimmed eyes when he handed her his letter the next day were testament to it. He had dismissed it in his resentment—or perhaps revelled in the sense of vindication it afforded him.

  “Darcy!”

  He started and looked up. Fitzwilliam was standing over him, looking concerned. All around the table, the ladies were rising to take their leave. He lurched to his feet. “Excuse me.”

  “You look ashen, man. What ails you?” Fitzwilliam whispered.

  “Naught—I am perfectly well.” That earned him a dubious look, but the appearance of some exceedingly fine port on the table saved him from further questioning and eased all the gentlemen into their usual after-dinner languor. Darcy sat down and swallowed most of the contents of his glass, attempting to swill down his shame and regret with it.

  “What the devil are you thinking,” said one of the guests to Darcy’s uncle, “hobbling poor Ashby to that hideous woman? She did naught but carp throughout the entire meal.”

  Fitzwilliam snorted. Ashby, at the far end of the table, did not appear to have heard, though Darcy wondered whether he would have objected if he had.

  “It was his choice,” Matlock replied. “He could have had Miss Blake.”

  “That was rather like choosing between the French disease and a venereal wart,” Fitzwilliam whispered to Darcy, almost making him spit out his wine.

  He could not disagree. Lady Philippa was insufferable, and Miss Blake had been worse. He waited until his cousin raised his glass to his own lips before asking, “Which one is which?”

  Fitzwilliam did spit out his wine. Darcy smirked. Adrift as he was in a sea of remorse, his cousin was a lighthouse to his sinking ship.

  “I know not for whom to feel more sorry,” Fitzwilliam whispered, wiping his chin with a napkin. “She will be saddled with Ashby, and I doubt she was given a choice. Women generally are not, I understand.”

  “We will give Georgiana a choice.”

  “We will?”

  He was not alone in his surprise. Heretofore, the list of suitors Darcy had deemed acceptable for his sister had been nominal, and he had certainly never considered her preference as having much bearing on the selection. When had that changed? He knew precisely when. He refused to think her name.

  “Then she will be one of a happy few,” Fitzwilliam continued, taking Darcy’s silence as answer. “Come to think on it, Miss Bennet is another. She felt not duty-bound to wed, did she? Though I doubt her parents were in accord with that particular choice.”

  Darcy blanched. “I…she…what?”

  “Precisely. They cannot have been pleased, for it would have secured all their futures. I cannot blame her, though. She would have been miserable.”

  Deeply wounded he should think so, Darcy forced himself to enquire how Fitzwilliam knew of it.

  “Anne told me.”

  “Anne knows?” he hissed.

  “I cannot believe the fool offered for her. Heir to Longbourn or not, it was an insult.”

  “What? Heir to—Collins?” Several gentlemen paused in their conversations to look at him. He lowered his voice once more and repeated, “Collins offered for Miss Bennet?”

  “Aye, can you imagi—”

  “When?”

  Fitzwilliam eyed him warily. “Obviously before he married his wife.”

  Darcy knew not whether to be relieved or aghast. He did not bother to suppress the urge to run a hand over his face this time.

  “Truly, Darcy, are you sure you are quite well?”

  He snatched his hand down. “Would that you stop asking me that! If it pleases you to have me unwell, then that will do. Let us say I have an ague. I probably ought to go home. I leave Georgiana in your capable hands.”

  Though Fitzwilliam tried several more times to extract some explanation for his malaise, Darcy would not capitulate. Even were he inclined to divulge his humiliation and misery, he did
not think he could, for he was truly beginning to feel ill. Ignoring his cousin’s concern, he made his excuses and departed.

  ***

  Saturday, 9 May 1812: Hertfordshire

  The carriage jounced into the High Street, its windows rattling and its driver bellowing at his horses. Mrs. Bennet flapped at the tangle of legs in the foot well, shrieking at anyone who stepped too near Jane’s new gown. Mary and Kitty argued. Lydia and Elizabeth laughed. Jane turned away to peer at the looming façade of the assembly rooms.

  Not even she had truly known how badly Mr. Bingley’s abandonment had affected her until he returned, whereupon she discovered her confidence in both the sincerity of his affections and her ability to secure them had been reduced to nothing. Four visits, his request for the first set this evening, and Elizabeth’s constant encouragement had buoyed Jane’s faith in him just enough to allow a measure of anticipation for the evening ahead, but it was a fragile faith, and her grip on it was tenuous.

  She and Elizabeth stepped down first and walked towards the entrance. “Once more unto the breach,” her sister said, grinning.

  “Pray, tax me not with Wordsworth this evening, Lizzy. I am determined to be sanguine, but it will only stretch so far.”

  Elizabeth gave her an odd look but said nothing more.

  “I hope it is not too warm inside this evening,” Mary said behind them.

  “As do I,” Mrs. Bennet agreed, catching up with them. “It was unbearable last month with all the fires lit.”

  “Oh, I have left my fan on the seat,” said Jane, checking her person to confirm its absence. “One moment.” She turned to fetch it from the carriage but stopped short of the door when she heard Lydia and Kitty still gossiping within.

  “All that fuss over a stupid dress!” Kitty exclaimed.

  “She does not look as well as Lizzy in any case,” replied Lydia. “Or me.”

  “Would that she hurry up and secure Mr. Bingley. Then we would not have to hear any more of her new dress or slippers or any of it.”

  “She had better hurry up and catch him soon anyway, for she is practically an old maid. I should die if I were three-and-twenty before I found a husband.”

  Jane re-joined the rest of her family sans fan or equanimity and now fighting back tears. Lydia’s words echoed her own fears precisely. If Mr. Bingley would not have her, who would?

  “Look, Jane,” her mother said in a none-too-quiet whisper as soon as they went in. “There he is! Look at the silk of his waistcoat! Oh, you are a clever girl!”

  Jane looked. Mr. Bingley did indeed look fine in full evening dress, but then she had always thought he did—just as she had always admired his ingenuous, affable smile, which to her relief, he then turned on her.

  “Good evening, Miss Bennet,” he called, coming immediately to greet her. He bowed; she curtsied. He beamed; she smiled. Then the moment was lost as her mother pounced upon it.

  “Mr. Bingley! How wonderful it is to see you—” She was allowed no further raptures. Elizabeth had urgent need of her elsewhere in the room, apparently. Which was very thoughtful, except it left Jane the sole focus of Mr. Bingley’s attention before she had thought of a single thing she might say to him. She managed to answer his few enquiries with equanimity, but by the time he led her to join the line for the first set, her hands were shaking from the fear that she would never be easy with him again.

  ***

  After all her recent revelations, Elizabeth could not but observe her family with new eyes, and she was vastly dissatisfied with what she saw. Mrs. Bennet doggedly and vociferously directed all her neighbours’ attention towards Jane and Mr. Bingley, Lydia and Kitty drew attention to themselves with their shameless flirting, and Mary, in her bid to avoid any attention at all, had slighted Mr. Winters by turning down his request to dance.

  How she could previously have been blind to such behaviour she knew not, but in acknowledging their impropriety, she better understood the depth of Mr. Darcy’s affections. He had been willing to expose himself to the ridicule they were certain to earn him—ridicule he had once told her it had been the study of his life to avoid—so as to be with her. Rather than dwell upon it, she marched across the room to demand that Lydia relinquish Lieutenant Connor’s sabre and to extract a large glass of wine from Kitty’s greedy clutches and give it to Mary in the hope it might embolden her to accept the next offer of a dance.

  “Good evening, Miss Elizabeth,” Mr. Wickham said, stepping out from the shadows, instantly trebling her indignation. “You look exceedingly well this evening. Would you do me the honour of the next dance?”

  She gave him the most perfunctory of curtsies and looked past him, searching for her partner. “I am already engaged for this one, sir,” she replied, grateful it was true.

  “Another then? I have not had the pleasure of your company since you returned from Kent.”

  His arrogant, presumptuous smirk only made Elizabeth more determined not to be compelled to talk to him. She pursed her lips and held her tongue.

  “You look as though you did not enjoy your stay there,” he said, quite mistaking the reason for her displeasure.

  “On the contrary, I found myself in excellent company in Kent. By comparison, this evening’s society feels distinctly wanting.”

  He pulled a face that he presumably thought was charming. “Ah, but you have not yet danced with me. Pray allow me to change your mind with the set after this one.”

  “I cannot oblige you there either, sir, for I have promised that one to Mr. Bingley.”

  “I shall begin to think you do not wish to dance with me,” he said, laughing in such a way as bespoke his complete assurance to the contrary. “Perhaps you fear my company would also prove wanting compared to your new friends in Kent?”

  “No indeed,” she replied with a full smile. “I could never think any less of you.”

  It was a moment before he recovered his smile. “I am relieved to hear it. Evidently, somebody has impressed you on your travels, though. I confess I am intrigued.”

  Elizabeth at last espied her dance partner coming towards her through the crowds. With her escape guaranteed, she had no qualms in satisfying Mr. Wickham’s curiosity. “There is no intrigue, sir. I believe you are acquainted with every person I saw there. Mr. and Mrs. Collins, of course, Maria Lucas and her father, Sir William, Lady Catherine and her daughter”—she turned her smile over Mr. Wickham’s shoulder to her approaching partner—“Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr. Darcy. Good evening, Mr. Greyson.”

  “Miss Elizabeth!” Mr. Greyson replied. “Pray, forgive my tardiness. Sir William delayed me. Shall we?”

  “With pleasure,” she said, accepting his arm and walking away as Mr. Wickham finally found his voice and spluttered, “Who…what…Darcy?”

  ***

  “Sister, will you look at Lizzy,” said Mrs. Philips. “Does she not dance beautifully?”

  “Well, you know, she always has!” replied Mrs. Bennet. “And do they not make a fine pair?”

  “Indeed they do, but did you know Mr. Greyson was returned? I heard nothing of it before this evening.”

  “Not a whisper! He was gone so long I began to think he would never come back, but see how he looks at Lizzy still, as though he never went away! There is no doubt he is here for her. I knew some good must come of her refusing Mr. Collins.”

  “As did I, Sister, as did I! But pray, is Jane not pleased Mr. Bingley is come back?”

  “What is your meaning? Of course she is pleased.”

  “Well, she might like to show it. I have not seen her say two words to him all evening.”

  “Nonsense! She simply does not rattle on like her other sisters, and with her countenance, neither does she need to! Oh, look at Kitty dancing with Captain Denny!”

  “Now there would be a hap
py match,” Mrs. Philips agreed, “if only Colonel Forster was not taking his regiment away to Brighton next month.”

  It soon became clear that this was news to Mrs. Bennet, for the remainder of the first set was passed listening to her violent lamentations over the militia’s imminent removal from Meryton.

  ***

  After two hours of watching and waiting, Wickham finally espied an opportunity. Seeing that Elizabeth Bennet stood unattended in a dingy corner of the ballroom, he strode directly to reach her before anybody else did. She knew something. He had no idea what, but her sly remarks earlier in the evening had convinced him it was something related to Darcy, and nothing to do with that self-righteous prig ever boded well.

  “Miss Elizabeth!” If not that he was already on his guard, he might have missed the flash of vexation upon her countenance. “You are much in demand this evening, but I have you to myself at last.”

  “So you do.”

  “You have danced very prettily tonight. I hope you have found all your partners agreeable.”

  “Aye, very much so, thank you.”

  “You seemed anxious earlier that Meryton’s society could not please you.”

  “Perhaps I was, but it does not do to be too fixed in one’s opinion of people,” she said with a pointed look.

  Blast it! What had Darcy told her? “Neither does it do to be easily persuaded of an alternative opinion.”

  “True, but people themselves alter so much, sometimes no persuasion is necessary.”

  “I see. And were any of your friends in Kent much altered? Has Mr. Darcy deigned to add ought of civility to his ordinary style? For I dare not hope that he is improved in essentials.”

  “Oh no,” she replied, eyes flashing. “In essentials, I believe, Mr. Darcy is very much what he ever was. Though I would say, from knowing him better, his disposition is better understood.”